Endurance
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Dorian never expected the Exalted Council to be easy. But news of his father's death, an impending Qunari invasion, and the rapid deterioration of Leas' Anchor and health, among other things, make it a far greater disaster than he ever could have imagined. In the end, all he can do is trust to the promise Leas has made him—but even that may not be enough.
1. The Gathering Clouds

**Author's Note:** My attempt at turning _Trespasser_into a full story! It was a small labour of love, so I would really appreciate it if you left a kudos and/or comment after you've read it. I hope you enjoy! Inspiration was taken from Lindira's _Fearful Thoughts_ on AO3 for some sections, but no copyright infringement or plagiarism was intended.

* * *

The moment the _saarebas_ falls, the accumulated energy from Leas' Anchor burning away his barriers and reaching through to stop his heart and lay him out flat, Leas himself almost falls on his face. Dorian kneels next to him, tries to catch his gaze. "Leas! _Amatus?_"

Leas gasps for breath and lifts his head off the ground. As the Anchor burns, accumulating energy again at a horrifying rate, he turns himself around so he is facing the last eluvian. Then he digs his fingers into the ground and begins to crawl forward.

"A-Aren't you going to _walk_?" Dorian protests.

Leas looks up at him, and for a moment, Dorian wishes he hadn't. Leas' eyes are still glowing bright green—not just his irises, but his whites and his pupils. They are not the site of the Anchor, but magical energy pours out of them, too. Down below, out of sight, the Anchor sparks and flares up, and its activity wracks Leas' body with shudders and twitches.

"I can't. Not anymore," Leas says. The words come out from between his teeth, punctuated by gasps.

"Then maybe we should come through with you—"

Leas shakes his head. "No. Don't… _ahhh!_… don't know what's there." His words slur. "If… I… fail… someone needs to… tell the Council."

"_Hang_ the Council! _Amatus_, please—" At this point, that bloody _green_ and Leas' agony are far more than Dorian can take. Every minute since they got to the Darvaarad has been a horror. Every explosion of the Anchor—and there have been many—has made him wonder if _this_ moment, or maybe the next, is now the end. That he could let Leas go alone… unthinkable.

But Leas only sets his jaw, even as his face twists with exquisite agony and sweat rolls down his forehead. He cries out as the Anchor flares again. "_No._ Stay. Give it… half an hour. Or… twenty minutes. If I'm not back… come get. All right?"

Even through the glow of his eyes, Dorian can see his resolve. His willpower crumbles, and with it, the first of the tears he's been holding back for so long makes its escape. "Bloody bastard," he whispers again, stroking Leas' cheek as much to soothe him as anything else. "Come _back_ to me."

Amazingly, despite the situation, Leas manages a chuckle. "You _hypocrite_," he mutters, and Dorian buries his face in his hands. "Well… kiss me already. If I'm… _argh_… dying, I want to remember something sweet."

At these words, his throat closes, and more tears escape. But he does as he's asked, leaning down and pulling Leas up into one more kiss.

The angle is terrible, and it's hard to focus over the haze of terror and despair gathering in his head, and a gasp or soft cry punctuates every one of Leas' movements. Still, he can feel what Leas is trying to say as they press their lips together gently. He recalls the words Leas spoke to him several days ago, a lifetime ago: _var'lath juros min'vir._ In his own tongue, _nostri amor hic iter perpetietur._ One of the few hopes he has left… but how small it is.

After a few moments, he pulls away, and Leas forces the weakest smile Dorian has surely ever seen from him. Then he collapses to the ground again, crawls away, and soon disappears through the final eluvian.

The minute he's out of sight, it all comes home to him at last, and he slumps back to the ground, paying no heed to Iselen and Bull racing over to him. The Exalted Council looking to tear down the Inquisition, his father dead, his impending permanent return to Tevinter to take his place in the Magisterium, Leas' mark tearing him apart from the inside, the machinations of the Qunari and Fen'Harel… Madness, even by their standards. And in such a short space, too. Has it only been a week?

Bull and Iselen are panting when they join him, and looking up at them, Dorian can see that both are pale and exhausted. "What now?" Bull says. "Shouldn't we go in after him?"

"He said we should wait out here, that somebody needed to tell the Exalted Council what has happened if he fails," Dorian tells him, sniffing. "Hang the Council, as far as I'm concerned, but he insisted. If he's not back in half an hour, then we'll follow him."

Both Bull and Iselen look like they want to argue, but as Leas has already gone, they nod and throw themselves to the ground. Iselen curls up and runs his hands through his hair, the stress etched into every line of his face. Bull, meanwhile, appears as if he could do with the world's largest glass of the world's strongest spirit. Maker knows he wouldn't pass up an offer of some potent wine, himself.

But they won't find anything like that in this ruin, so Dorian turns to face the eluvian, rests his head on his hand, and starts to run through in his mind again just how they'd got to this point.

* * *

_Oh, Orlesians. Never change,_ he muses to himself while Cyril de Montfort prattles on. _This one's rather more obnoxious than most, actually. _Seems_ friendly, better than most Orlesians, but you only need to listen to hear the poison beneath his words. Like most magisters, come to think of it._ Why he finds it more obnoxious and grating than usual, Dorian isn't entirely sure, but something about Cyril's false affability—false _sycophancy_, even—sets his teeth on edge. Maybe it is the contrast between the words he speaks and the intentions he _knows_ Orlais has for the Inquisition, the fact that they all dare to pretend otherwise when everyone else is well aware of what they're trying to do.

"Which is why the Orlesian court is circling it with a net and collar?" he asks Cyril once the man has finished speaking. He's in no mood to engage in the usual doublespeak and rhetoric that so characterises the Orlesian court, and if he's being honest, he'd love to see just how Cyril can respond to his bluntness. There's always something amusing about catching Orlesians off their game.

But out of the corner of his eye, Dorian spots a flash of red and deep blue. He turns to see a far more pleasant sight than the entire Winter Palace approaching him, a small smile on his face visible even from here. _Praise the Maker. There you are at last._ Well, no point sticking around with Cyril when he now has far _better_ company.

"But you'll have to excuse me," Dorian says, sparing Cyril only a brief glance as he speaks. "I see an old friend I must greet." To his credit, Cyril lets him go without a word, and Dorian steps past him and over to Leas, a small smile of his own tugging at his lips.

"_Amatus_," he says by way of greeting, enjoying the sparkle he can see in Leas' eyes even as he notes that the man seems paler and thinner than he was the last time they met. "Wading through all the pomp and circumstance, I see."

Leas raises an eyebrow at him, feigning irritation. "You're back after being away in Tevinter for a month," he protests, "and _this_ is how you greet me?" He makes an attempt at a pout, but Dorian can see how he has to fight to keep his smile from showing. He chuckles.

"I have an apology ready," he says smoothly, and he steps forward and pulls Leas off his toes and into a kiss. For once, the fact that the Orlesian ambassador is right behind them doesn't even cross his mind.

Leas giggles, mollified, and kisses back, as gentle as ever. Welcoming, telling him he's glad Dorian is back, even if he wasn't away for long, and Dorian smiles and chases that feeling as much as he chases Leas' lips. It only takes him a moment to notice that said lips are unusually chapped, however, and that Leas' breath comes more raggedly and shallowly than it should. When he pulls away a tad to rest their foreheads together and smile down at him, he sees in full that Leas really is _very_ pale. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever, his cheeks look a little sunken in, and his hair—usually so well-maintained—hangs limp and lank.

He would ask, but Leas speaks before he can. "Apology accepted, _arasha_," he says with another giggle, pulling further away now. Then, without further preamble, he gets down to business, and Dorian does his best to shove aside the first hints of alarm he's feeling to explain what he knows. Luckily for him—or perhaps not—that can all be summed up in a few very blunt sentences.

"Well, you don't need to tell _me_ that," Leas says, grinning, when Dorian tells him he can call on him as he likes. It looks normal, but no blood rises to his cheeks, which remain pallid. Still, Dorian tries not to think anything of it. Instead, he smiles at Leas and strokes his cheek with the backs of his fingers—a form of affection he could never have indulged in in public at home.

Leas leans into the touch, but mere seconds later, he winces, and at the same moment, a flash of green grabs Dorian's attention. They both look down and see the Anchor sparking, and at once, Dorian realises why Leas looks so sickly.

"Has that been causing you trouble?" he murmurs.

Leas blows out a breath and casts a basic healing spell, suppressing the Anchor's activity a little. "It _has_ been more active than usual, yes," he says. "But it's nothing healing spells can't handle, I assure you."

Again, Dorian hesitates—he can't do anything else, with Leas' pallor and weight loss right in front of his eyes. But Leas doesn't elaborate, and as it's been a long time since he's had to remind Leas not to work himself to exhaustion or otherwise neglect his health, Dorian leaves it be. "All the more reason to come see me later. I'll find a way to distract you."

Leas grins back at him. "If I can find the time, I will absolutely take you up on that." He then leans back in to kiss Dorian again, quickly. After he pulls away, Dorian strokes his cheek and smiles down at him again, then he leaves, hoping to find the others and see what they've been up to since he last saw them.

* * *

After he finishes reading the letter, Dorian lays it back on the table and lifts his head to stare out the window, though he sees none of what's outside. His mind is almost as blank, and the few thoughts and emotions slugging their way through it move about as slow as snails.

It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. It's an almost uniquely Tevinter fate, but it's not one he ever envisioned befalling his father. Even after he had found out about the man's little plan for him and departed posthaste, he had always seemed larger than life, as parents do. Immortal, even. The concept that he could have been bleeding out somewhere or vomiting from poison while Dorian was enjoying himself on the way south—that is beyond comprehension.

And the ambassadorship… his doing? Was he trying to keep Dorian out of the way, shield from the trouble? Shield him with his own life, even…

His hand comes down on the table, and his gut wrenches inside his chest. Unbidden, he sees in his mind's eye the three different versions of his father: the one who he had idolised when he was a boy and to whom he had compared all others, the one who had tried to change him and who he had still loved but also hated, and the one who had stumbled through an apology that at the very _least_ had been sincere. He had doubted that sincerity, but now those doubts are laid to rest, along with everything else.

_So you changed after all, you bastard. _Fasta vass_, I almost wish you hadn't. Would be simpler._ Less anger, less confusion, less mingled love and hatred, less of the first stirrings of grief that are now rearing their ugly head. Dorian sits back in his chair and runs his hands over his face, and he shakes his head. His mind now turns to practical matters. At least _they're_ easier to deal with and comprehend.

First: assuming his seat in the Magisterium. Simple enough; after so many centuries, they've got the inheritance laws and rites of succession down to a science, and his father was as careful about his will as he was about all other things. _Not that he'd said anything about keeping me as his heir…_ Still, so long as he gets back to Tevinter within the next two months, there'll be no problems. Any later, and they'll assign the seat to some distant cousin. Simple. Fine.

Second: whoever did this. Finding them is an obligation as much as anything; a new magister not responding to an assassination in the family is a major sign of weakness. Strange that they would want to get to a man so well-established in the Magisterium and so well-known for being if not conservative, then at least _traditional_. More likely, he realises, they were going for a target whose talk of reform and association with the fledgeling Lucerni was threatening. Which just brings him back around to the idea that his father had attempted to shield him, and his stomach turns over again.

Regardless, that's double the reason to go hunting for these assassins as soon as he returns. He'll have no more protection the moment he crosses the border again, and it's the principle of the thing. Whoever killed his father to get to him is no doubt one and the same with those giving Tevinter a bad name. A civic duty as much as a familial duty to take them out, even if most of his countrymen wouldn't see it that way. _Marvellous, one last obligation to you,_ he muses with a bitter chuckle, though it sounds half-strangled even to his ears.

All the same, the man _had_ made up for his actions, at least in part. However Dorian might feel about him, however complicated this building storm of emotions might be, the least he can do is acknowledge the change, for what little good it does. There's no more chance for change, for… anything, really. He might as well take what he can get.

_Venhedis._

Third: returning home. He'll have to go as soon as the Exalted Council is over, of course. A ride up to Jader, then a ship to Cumberland, followed by a carriage to Vyrantium and another ship to Minrathous. Simple, if expensive. Except Leas—

Oh. And there's the other thing.

Leas, Leas, Leas. How is he going to explain all this to him? And how will Leas take him going back to Tevinter for good, given that he no longer has a place in his clan? And what happens if somebody back home finds out about _them_ and decides to use it against him? No, no, it's nothing to be ashamed of; it _can't_ be used against him. But Leas, even with all his power and resources… he could be threatened. And as much as he's survived…

So much for him coming to Tevinter then, Dorian realises. No, better to keep him away for the time being, however long that might be. He'll be safer in the south—as safe as he can be with his absurd luck, anyway. _I know what you'll say about what you've survived, but I don't feel like tempting fate, _amatus_,_ he thinks. _Besides, you have your dreams. You can come visit me in mine. It'll keep. At least for the moment. Assuming there aren't any dreamer magisters who can find you…_

That is paranoia. But the Magisterium requires paranoia. Once they get wind of what he wants to do… they'll try to take his life from him in time, oh yes. But first, they'll take everything else that matters. Leas included.

_Unacceptable. He'll stay. The poor man has enough to worry about without needing to watch his back for murderous magisters at every moment._

Ironclad reasoning. Still, as Dorian looks back out the window again and wishes that it was later in the day so he could have a drink or five, he wonders if Leas himself will see it that way. The answer comes to him at once, and he groans and buries his face in his hands. Trust Leas to make things difficult.

But it has to be done. For once, he cannot give way.

* * *

This had absolutely _not_ been his plan, Dorian muses as he holds his drink in his hand and shifts from foot to foot. He doesn't mind the idea of a farewell party—he approves, actually—but he'd wanted to wait until the Exalted Council was _over_. That way, they'd all have the burden of it taken off their minds and something else to celebrate, and Leas would have had a few days to process things. That would have been ideal.

But really, he should have known better than to mention his impending magister-dom to the biggest gossip in all Thedas. He and Varric had been confiding in each other about their new titles (he still can't comprehend that _Varric_ is now a viscount), then one thing had led to another. Now, here he stands with Varric, Sera, Cole, and Bull, the latter already shitfaced to the point of unconsciousness. (Here, Dorian can't help but think this is something worth aspiring to.) And knowing his luck, it will spread, because _none_ of these dear people can keep their mouths shut, and Leas will find out from someone other than him, and then there'll be hell to pay.

Varric chooses this moment to start on a speech, because of _course_ he does, and Dorian is of a mind with Sera that he's talking too much. "Varric, there's really no need," he says, while he continues to shift on his feet. He clutches his drink like the mug could break apart at any moment and looks around for any signs of Leas' impending arrival. Thus far, all he's seen are two of Leas' former clanmates, Telahmisa and Taralen, speaking with a few servants in a corner, in a manner he believes is rather _conspiratorial_. (But maybe that's just paranoia again.)

Except then he catches a flash of red and deep blue out of the corner of his eye, as he did yesterday.

This time, his stomach sinks to his feet, and he turns to watch Leas approach them, accompanied by Adhlean, now a gangling, acne-scarred boy of thirteen. There's only curiosity in his expression, nothing more, but still, Dorian's blood chills. This is _not_ a discussion he wants to have in public, where anyone can overhear…

"What's going on?" Leas asks, and at those words, panic erupts within him, because Varric will answer that question and say _far_ too much and then—

As predicted, Varric does so. But, naturally, he doesn't give the game away until the final sentence: "But _we'll_ miss you, if it counts."

A pause. Dorian forces himself to look back at Leas and Adhlean. The latter's eyes flicker between him and Varric, then he says, "Miss him? What d'you mean?"

_Ohhh, venhedis. Venhedis kaffan vas!_

For a long moment, Leas stares. Dorian, however, can see the precise moment when it hits him, for his brow furrows over his eyes, and he clenches his jaw, and he turns to give Dorian a look as questioning as it is _angry_. Dorian cringes back from him, blood draining from his face, and then, though he knows it's not Varric's fault that telepathy doesn't exist, he turns and glares at him too.

"Aaaand you didn't know," Varric says, getting the hint and visibly deflating. The party breaks up from there, all sans Bull, but he's in such a deep alcohol-induced sleep Dorian suspects they don't need to worry about him interrupting, anyway. He lays his drink aside and walks away from the couches, and after a few moments, he hears Leas following just behind. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adhlean running off to talk to Telahmisa and Taralen.

After another, longer pause, the words start tumbling out of his mouth, explanations of the letter and his father's death, too-flippant answers even for him to Leas' softly delivered questions about his new status and his future plans. While he's talking, he watches Leas, watches how he looks down at his feet before snapping his head back up the moment Dorian tells him of the assassination, watches the changes in his expression that are too minute to tell him anything. With every moment that passes, the dread for Leas' inevitable response builds in his chest. And then—

"You'll need help," Leas says, after hesitating briefly. "I don't know what'll happen after… I could go with you."

"Not this time, _amatus_," Dorian says at once, shaking his head. Then he remembers Adhlean, and as much as he detests using emotional blackmail, he knows he has to bring this up. "Besides, don't you have Adhlean to worry about? I hardly imagine _he'd_ want to move to dread Tevinter."

Leas lets out a laugh that is strange in its bitterness. "Only for half the year, Dorian, remember," he reminds him. "Six months with me, six months with the clan, as we agreed. I won't bring him to Tevinter, but I could spend the half of the year he's with the clan with you. I see no reason why I shouldn't."

Dorian grimaces and shakes his head. "I… can't allow that, Leas," he says, hating the way Leas' face falls at the words. "The situation in Tevinter is… too unstable. And as soon as anyone finds out who you are and what your connection is to me, there'll be a target on your back. You've got _enough_ to worry about without having to look over your shoulder at every turn—as you _would_ be in Minrathous—and I will not put you at risk and possibly _deprive your son of his father_." He speaks pointedly, even as his voice cracks and old memories rendered painful flood his mind. Leas takes the point, or seems to, but like Varric, he visibly deflates. That's not even the full reason, but it's easier to win arguments with Leas when he brings up Adhlean, as manipulative as that may be.

To assuage the blow, he offers reassurances about Maevaris and the other junior magisters, and more flippancy, but judging from the grimace creasing Leas' features, it all falls short of the mark. Not that he's surprised—his glibness isn't doing anything even for him.

"All that aside," Leas says after still another pause, "_ebalan i'na._ I know it was complicated, but… I'm sorry about your father." Dorian looks away briefly, the elven phrase and the slight tremble in Leas' voice rending at his heart. _I grieve with you._ Leas had said it to him before, after Felix's death, and now he says it again. He's just as sincere now as he was then, even though he only met Magister Halward once, in some… very awkward circumstances.

Maker, but this is why he loves the man. "Thank you," he murmurs. "It still doesn't feel real." What will happen when it _does_ start feeling real… he'll worry about that later.

"And… what of us? This is it, then?" Blast it, those eyes of his have got that puppy-like look in them again, big and shining and pleading, and it's just as effective with golden irises as it is with vibrant blue ones, Dorian realises.

"Nonsense," he blurts. "There will always be an 'us'. We'll just be… farther apart, for a time." A very long time, admittedly, but a time nonetheless.

Leas, however, does not appreciate this distinction. He looks away, lower lip pushing out into a pout and visibly quivering. _Oh, Maker preserve me._ Dorian can feel his willpower crumbling from that alone. If Leas' eyes had been wet, he might well have given in right then and there.

As it is…

"Now, now, don't pout," he chides, hoping to lift Leas' mood even as he knows that nothing will lift his mood, unable to think of any other response. Such emotions as these went out of fashion among the upper echelons of Tevinter back before… Darinius, probably. "They'll put that expression on a statue, and then you'll be sorry."

Heartbreak turns to hurt. Leas can conceal nothing, the poor little naïf, though Dorian knows he deserves that look. "You think this is funny?"

"Nothing about this is funny," he admits. Time for sincerity, he thinks. One more flippant remark and he'll probably be bawled out. "I _am_ sorry, for what it's worth." But Leas doesn't respond, so in some desperate attempt to salvage this entire conversation—_damn you, Varric, and come to think of it, damn you, Father_—he pulls the sending crystals he'd got Josephine to acquire for him and offers them to Leas. Leas looks down at them.

"A present," Dorian says, with a slight smile. "A going-away present." He explains the crystals, or at least the basic principle, and naturally, he slips back into his glibness and insouciance even though the expression on Leas' face isn't changing at all. He considers it a small triumph when Leas plucks one of the crystals from his hand and places it in his pocket, though the action seems rote and mechanical even to him.

"You are the man I love, _amatus_," he says after he's babbled on long enough. A better attempt at sincerity than anything else he's managed thus far, to be sure. "Nothing will truly keep us apart. We'll always find each other, even in our dreams." And one day, _one day_, when Tevinter has been set to rights and is no longer the resident bogeyman of Thedas… then he might let Leas come to him in more than just his dreams. One day…

Returning his own crystal to his pocket, he takes Leas' hands in both of his and pulls him into his arms, and while he can feel Leas' heartbreak and even reluctance radiating off him, the man doesn't resist. Indeed, as soon as their lips touch, he returns it with fierce desperation. It seems more like the kiss of a man who might die tomorrow, rather than one who's being left behind, but Dorian is so relieved that Leas isn't pushing him away that he thinks nothing of it. It's a sloppy kiss too, but that matters little. When Dorian pulls away, Leas remains close, staring into his chest.

"Now let's finish the good wine before the others get back," Dorian suggests, but Leas does not move.

"You want to keep me safe from the magisters," he murmurs. "Not just for Adhlean, but for you. You fear they'll use me to get to you, and you can't have that. You can't give me up for Tevinter… even as you are giving me up for Tevinter." Dorian catches the double meaning, and his heart clenches. Leas' voice is flat, but there's a slight hint of accusation in it.

"That's… more or less it," he says, stroking Leas' cheek again. "They'll pounce on anything they can use against me when it becomes clear what I'm doing. They'll try to kill me eventually, but they'll take everything that matters to me first, and you'll be top of the list. I can already see it: I'll spend half my life worrying about you, and I'll get nothing _done_. I don't want to hide us, _amatus_, but far better if I don't give them more ammunition to use against me, and as you've already figured out, I won't risk you for anything in Tevinter. For _your_ sake as much as mine and Adhlean's."

Leas lets out a weak chuckle, shoulders slumping. "As you say… _'ma vhen'an,_" he says. Not _arasha_ or _ara lath_, Dorian notes. Interesting. "_Var'lath juros min'vir,_" Leas adds, as if he were speaking a solemn vow, but the words are entirely lost on him.

Before he can ask, Leas looks up at him. "You want to keep me safe. I suppose I appreciate your concern, but…"

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "But?"

"But you should know by now that it's a futile task, keeping me safe."

Then, without another word, Leas disentangles himself from him and walks towards the couches, while Dorian's heart sinks to the ground.

* * *

The next day, after the Exalted Council begins and is disrupted just as quickly by the dead Qunari, and after Leas rushes through the newly discovered eluvian with Vivienne, Cassandra, and Varric in tow, Dorian paces about his room. It'll be a few days at least before he has to go, but he's already packed and written the requisite letters to his associates back home. For the moment, little else remains that he can do; the real work will begin as soon as he returns to Minrathous. One less thing to worry about, but it also leaves him with nothing to keep him distracted from thoughts of home, and wherever Leas might be right now, and whatever's going on with the Qunari, and other, equally unpleasant things. Dorian signs, runs a hand over his face, and paces another lap of the room.

At that moment, there's a knock at the door, but before he can take so much as a single step in its direction, it opens, and Adhlean peeks his head in. "Hey, Dorian."

Dorian jumps back. "_Fasta vass_, Adhlean, you might have waited for me to open the door," he chides. Even to his ears, his voice sounds curt and ragged, but Adhlean doesn't seem at all bothered by his shortness. If anything, he's giving Dorian a look strangely reminiscent of the one that Leas gave him yesterday.

"Sorry," Adhlean says, not sounding sorry at all. The boy's grown into a rather typical teenager—and so quickly, too. Not that he doesn't have much to be stressed and grumpy about, Dorian notes. "But I wanted to talk. Is this a bad time?"

Dorian grimaces. He can already guess what it is Adhlean wants to say to him. But he'll not back down from a thirteen-year-old, so he inclines his head and beckons for Adhlean to enter. "What is it?"

Adhlean comes in and stands before him with folded arms. He's not much older than he was the last time Dorian saw him, but he bears little resemblance now to the shy, anxiety-ridden boy who his clan sent to Skyhold several years ago. "It's about _Babae_," he says, and Dorian's stomach drops yet again. "Why are you breaking up with him?"

Dorian stares at him. "What? We're not—what gave you _that_ idea?"

Adhlean blows out a long breath that might have been meant as a snort. "_Babae_ didn't tell me what you two said to each other after Varric ran his mouth off yesterday," he says. "But he was up crying most of the night. I mean, the Anchor's been a lot worse than normal, and the Exalted Council's swooping in like vultures and trying to tear everything he's done apart, but he never seemed worried about that before," he adds, oblivious to the alarm on Dorian's face. "If he was crying, it had to be you. Why are you leaving him?"

"Oh, Maker," Dorian groans, running a hand over his face. "I'm _not_, Adhlean. Meaning, I'm not _ending things_ with him. I _am_ going back to Tevinter—to assume my father's seat in the Magisterium. And I told him he can't come with me. That's all." His grimace belies the last two words. As if separating himself from Leas for years could ever just be '_that's all_'.

The teenager stares at him, cocking his head to the side, his mouth twisting in a grimace now eerily reminiscent of his uncle's scowl. "So _Babae_'s going to be dating a magister?" he says bluntly. "For real, now?"

"That's right."

To his credit, Adhlean doesn't object to this. "But long-distance? How's that going to work?"

"I gave him a sending crystal," Dorian says. He takes his own crystal out of his pocket and shows it to Adhlean. "It'll let us speak to each other, however far apart we might be. It's not the same as being physically together, I _know_, but while I'm off trying to wrangle with my countrymen and show them another path for my homeland, we'll be able to interact just the same as if he was with me. _Almost_ just the same. Do you understand?"

Adhlean does not look mollified. "So he'll be less alone than he was? You talk to him whenever you deign? And you don't have to worry about his safety by keeping him out of Tevinter, but he can worry about yours? Is that it?" he asks. The words are cutting, and Dorian looks askance at him.

"He'll be able to talk to me whenever he pleases, you know," he says, trying not to snap. "And—" But then he stops, realising that in the other two cases, Adhlean speaks nothing less than the truth.

_Kaffas._

Unable to think of a better response, Dorian half-glares at the boy. "If you're worried about him being alone, why don't you stay with him after this is over?"

"I'm not _Babae_," Adhlean says. "I can't stay away from the clan forever, and I still have a lot of magic to learn. And it's not my fault Keeper Deshanna won't allow one extra mage to stay in the clan." Bitterness laces his words, and he folds his arms and looks away. "I need to go back, and so does Iselen. But everyone else here is leaving, too, and _Babae_ told me he doesn't know what'll happen after this. Where's he gonna go, if not Tevinter? I wouldn't go there with him, but I think he'd be happy there with you."

The guilt tries to strangle him, and it is some moments before Dorian can speak. "I won't risk your father's life in my homeland, Adhlean," he says. "He would be a target as soon as anybody learnt of his connection to me. And the last thing he needs is to be spending every waking moment looking over his shoulder for assassins, slavers, and hostile magisters. I won't do that to him—and I won't deprive _you_ of him. My father's just been assassinated—do you really think I want the same for yours?"

Adhlean's expression softens a little, but his posture remains tense. "Okay, that… makes sense. And I'm… sorry about your father. Truly. But… how are you going to keep him from worrying about you? _You'll_ be a target too."

A fine point. "The crystal," he says patiently. "And letters, of course. And he can always visit me in my dreams. It wouldn't be the first time," he adds, fondness creeping into his voice.

"Yeah, okay. I just don't see why you get to play the martyr while he's not allowed to do anything. Don't you trust him?"

"Of course I trust him," Dorian protests, stung. After a moment's pause, the words rise easily. "But I want him _alive_. The poor man's done enough for the world, and apart from being concerned for his safety, I don't want him running himself ragged for Tevinter. Wouldn't you agree he needs a rest?"

Adhlean sighs. "I guess. But he could rest and lie low in Tevinter. He can't stay in Wycome because the clan's staying there, and that would count as breaking his exile or something." The bitterness returns. "And he's got no interest in Kirkwall. So I don't know where he'll go after this. So I thought he'd go to Tevinter. But you don't want him to come. So I don't know where this leaves him. So he's going to end up alone, and you know he really doesn't enjoy being alone."

Dorian looks away, insides twisting as he wonders if he's made the right choice. "I know," he admits. "But I'd rather him lonely and alive than dead in my homeland, and I want him to have at least a few years of rest from being in _danger_ all the time. I'm hoping it won't be forever. One day, when Tevinter is set to rights…" He trails off, well aware of how much like a pipe dream that sounds.

"You can't even let him visit?"

A long pause, then Dorian exhales. "Perhaps I _could_," he says carefully, "but I would have to make the arrangements. The situation back home… _precludes_ foreigners travelling freely, especially elves. Between the Qunari, the conflict on the Nevarran border, the bandits, the slavers, and I don't know what else—do you get the point?"

Adhlean nods, but it's clearly reluctant. "All right, but I hope you're not looking for excuses," he says, earning him another glare. Maker, but the boy has developed some cheek, hasn't he? Much like his uncle. "He was talking a lot a few days ago about how much he wanted to see Tevinter in the flesh. And with everything else about to end—he'll be alone. But I don't want him to be. I want him to be _happy_. And he won't be on his own. Do you get that?"

"I understand," Dorian says tiredly. He can feel his shoulders sagging. "But why do you think I'm going back? I'm trying to change Tevinter, at least in part so we _can_ have a future."

At last, Adhlean cracks a smile—a weary smile, but a smile all the same. "All right, but if you get yourself _martyred_ trying to change things, I'll revive you and sic Iselen on you."

Dorian laughs. "Good luck with that," he says. "I'm sure you won't be the only one."

Adhlean opens his mouth to respond, but he hasn't even got a word out when a guard pokes his head through the door. "Lord Pavus? The Inquisitor and his party have returned," he says. "They've got tidings. From what I've heard, they seem grave."

Dorian's amusement now dies as fast as it began. "Thank you," he says. "I'm on my way." The guard nods and disappears, and Adhlean looks at him, shrugs, then follows him out. Dorian takes a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and wonder just how _exciting_ this Council will be before he also leaves, heading in the opposite direction.

It's not until he's back outside and heading towards the room where Leas' advisors have set up the war table that he realises he forgot to ask Adhlean what he meant when he said the Anchor had been causing Leas more trouble than usual.


	2. The Breaking Storm

Later that night, after Leas has discussed the situation with the whole group, advised the Exalted Council of what they discovered in the ruins, and made plans to head back through the eluvian the next day to pursue the Qunari, Dorian joins him in his room. The four of them—himself, Leas, Iselen, and Adhlean—share a dinner, and it would almost be domestic if it weren't for the atmosphere of palpable tension in the room. Dorian still can't take his mind off his father, the horror and pain of what has just happened taking all of his willpower to hold back and leaving him in no mood to talk. Iselen and Adhlean appear profoundly ill at ease, no doubt because of certain revelations about the elven Creators Dorian has heard some rumours of since the party returned from the ruins. Leas, meanwhile, looks even paler than ever, and he picks at his food, eating very little. There is a certain comfort to be had in each other's company, but that is all; the threat of impending doom hangs over them like a shroud.

After dinner, Iselen and Adhlean retire for the night. Leas bids them goodnight, and as soon as he has closed the door, he slumps against it. The Anchor sparks in his hand, but his only reaction is a groan.

"_Amatus?_" Dorian asks, stepping up behind him and laying only his fingers on the man's back.

"I'm just… very tired, Dorian, don't worry," Leas says. His voice sounds ragged, even a little slurred. "And very sick. Have been since we got to Halamshiral, actually. My stomach's been churning, I've lost my appetite, and my spells aren't as good as usual. Think it was something I ate…" He groans again and applies a basic healing spell to the Anchor. It dies down only a little, but that seems to be enough for Leas.

Despite himself, Dorian snorts. "Marvellous. Food poisoning at a time like this," he says, and Leas chuckles weakly. "What about the Anchor?"

Leas turns to face him and shrugs. "It reacted to an artefact we found in the ruins," he says as he steps past him and goes over to his bed. He promptly throws himself down on it. "It's been acting up even more since then. It's not uncontrollable, but I wish it would settle down. The pain's making it hard to focus."

Dorian follows him and settles down next to him. "Should I be worried, Leas?" he asks, though of course, he already is.

"Not yet," Leas says. "I _am_ sick, and there's a lot going on. The thing's very attuned to my emotional state by now. I'm sure it'll be fine once this is all over and I've had some time to catch my breath." He doesn't speak as though he's entirely convinced of his own words, but Dorian nods and tries to put it out of his mind, at least for the time being.

Still, it's hard to do when Leas looks as white as a sheet, his hair is so lank and limp, the shadows under his eyes are worse than ever, and—worst of all—there's no natural smile on his face, only a worried frown twisting his mouth and an unnerving blankness in his eyes. "I'm told you found something about your gods in the ruins that you weren't expecting," he says after a moment. "How bad was it?"

Leas' eyes light up briefly. "Oh, that," he says. Then he leans his head against Dorian's shoulder. "It was… a bit out of left field, yes. The sanctuary belonged to Fen'Harel—the Betrayer of elven legend. I found mosaics that depicted him as the leader of a great slave rebellion, and the Creators as… not as gods, but as mortal mages of _incomprehensible_ power who falsely claimed godhood and enslaved tens of thousands. A story rather divorced from all the legends I ever heard growing up, you understand."

Dorian blows out a long breath, and his eyebrows lift. He looks down at Leas, tries to read his expression for what he thinks about this, but for once, he cannot tell. Leas looks deeply disheartened, even depressed—and on instinct, Dorian snakes an arm around him, as if to bring him some comfort—but that could be about any number of things. "Meaning… what? The Dalish have been worshipping false gods?"

Leas grimaces. "That… is a possibility," he says. "On the one hand, they were _real_. And that's comforting. But on the other hand, they weren't real _gods_, and they were far more malicious than we ever suspected."

In response, Dorian pulls him a little closer into his chest. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "Are you all right?"

To his surprise, he feels Leas smiling. "Don't worry, I think I am," he says. Then he looks up and sees Dorian frowning. "Look, if it turns out to be true… that might be something to worry about. But this was a sanctuary run by Fen'Harel. This was _one man's_ perspective. One man's propaganda, even. And the first rule of historiography? Get multiple sources. I'm willing to believe the Creators were not all what we thought them to be. I'll even accept that they were slavers; Solas told me years ago that there was slavery in Elvhenan. But I won't swallow such claims as the ones made in that ruin without further proof. So, yes, I'm _fine_. Because it's a claim that needs testing, nothing more."

Dorian considers this, then he slowly nods. That is a sensible enough way of looking at it, he supposes, though Maker knows it's not for him to judge. "I understand. But if you find multiple, corroborating sources?"

There's a long pause, then Leas breathes in deeply. "I guess we'll see. I'll do my best to be objective and record everything I find, for a start. Then I'll send it to my Keeper, and we can distribute it at the next Arlathvhen. What that'll mean for us, however… I don't know. Our religion is something we've always clung onto so closely, so to find that our gods were not what we thought them to be…" Leas shrugs. "_I'll_ be okay. I've always been open to such ideas. And I needn't believe in any gods when I already believe in the world. But most of us… I honestly don't know, Dorian. It'll cause a lot of upheaval."

Dorian nods. That's all he can do. "I wish I had something I could say," he admits, "but it's not really my place, is it?"

Leas chuckles again and strokes his cheek. "No, not really," he teases. After a moment, he sighs, seems to relax, and adds, "I won't worry too much about it right now, anyway. Not in the middle of a possible Qunari invasion."

Dorian takes that as his own cue to ease up. "Fair enough. Ah, at least Tevinter and the Inquisition have something in common," he says, and Leas laughs and swats at him.

"Yes, I'm sure we'll be the best of friends after this," he responds, and Dorian laughs too. The tension in the room begins to dissipate, though Leas looks as wan as ever. The man shifts himself into his lap, snuggling into Dorian's chest, and Dorian presses a few brief kisses to his temple and jaw before Leas claims his lips for something far better.

Later, after they've finished their lovemaking and gone to bed for the night, Dorian watches Leas as he slumbers. He shifts uneasily in his sleep, and the glow of the Anchor is constant now, and even the sex was not enough to restore the colour to his face. Still, despite all of that, when Leas' unmarked hand reaches out in his sleep to grasp his, he can't help but feel some spark of hope.

He can't speak for Tevinter, but perhaps here, things will turn out all right.

* * *

In hindsight, Dorian realises, he needs to stop thinking things like that.

The next day is the Deep Roads, and it passes in a blur of water, explosives, eluvians, and more Qunari soldiers than he's seen since the last raid in Seheron he was present for. The day after that is the library, and Dorian remains behind while Leas presses on ahead, and as a result, the day passes with all the speed of a snail. If the circumstances were different, this might be the time to wonder about his father and Tevinter, but with the Qunari seeming poised to invade, his mind remains on more immediate matters.

Matters such as Leas and the Anchor.

Leas woke up on the day of the Deep Roads sicker than ever. True, he only threw up a few times and could keep down most of the water he drank. But even battle could do nothing for his colour, his step was slow and devoid of all its usual confidence, and the few smiles he offered Dorian were strained and weak. Worse, and most suspiciously, his spells were weaker than usual, as though his mana pool had suddenly shrunk for no reason that Dorian can discern. Since then, he has only got worse, and even the potions Vivienne and the healers at the palace have offered have done little to ease his sickness. It is not food poisoning, that much is clear—but _what_ it is…

His condition is only worsened by the Anchor—which in turn is exacerbated by his condition, in a horrific sort of chicken-and-egg situation. According to the others, it has been flaring up with ever-increasing frequency, especially in the ruined library, and Leas and Vivienne's healing spells are now only just enough to restrain its explosions. Leas said nothing to him when they returned from the library though the Anchor was crackling in his hand at that very moment. But Dorian does not need to be told that it is deteriorating, that things are at last coming to a head.

What that means, he does not dare to guess.

That night, long after Leas, Vivienne, Sera, and Bull have returned through the eluvian and spoken to the council, a messenger appears at Dorian's door and tells him that Divine Victoria requests to see all of them at once, regarding a most urgent matter. Dorian barely remembers to thank the woman as he tosses his book aside and races out the door.

The lot of them gather in the room with the war table—all except Leas. "Where is the Inquisitor?" Cassandra asks while Dorian is busy reading the grim expression on Leliana's face and feeling his stomach sink to the ground.

"He sends his apologies. He was too sick to attend," Leliana says. "It is, in fact, on his account that I have called this meeting. The Inquisitor… his condition is deteriorating at a very rapid pace."

Dorian feels the blood drain from his face, and next to him, he sees Iselen grimace, looking quite terrified. "Do you mean his illness, Your Holiness, or the Anchor?" Vivienne asks.

"The Anchor," Leliana says. "Though I am certain his illness is not helping. The Anchor erupted during our meeting—I suspect this occasion was the worst one yet. It was several minutes before the episode ended, and he was in… terrible agony the entire time." She sighs, closes her eyes, frowns, bows her head, the picture of mournfulness.

_Oh no…_

"Well, don't hold back," Sera says, voice a little higher-pitched than average. "What're you saying?"

"I am saying the Inquisitor… Uvunleas… he is dying. The Anchor is killing him," Leliana tells them, and her voice trembles. The bottom drops out of the world, and Dorian sways on his feet, mostly unaware of the curses and soft, wordless cries and other reactions going on around him. "He showed us his arm. It is in a dreadful state. He believes the Anchor's power has spread to his elbow and will soon reach his shoulder. If this continues, it will reach his heart, and another attack would kill him. He does not think it will be long now. A day, at the most."

_A day. A day. No, no! No!_

"Shit. Why didn't he say something?" Blackwall murmurs.

Vivienne answers before Leliana can. "It _was_ under control," she says, and her voice trembles a little. "The healing spells sufficed to ease the pain if nothing else. It must be because he's a dreamer. While it was under control, all his willpower and skill were enough to hold it back. But now that it is degenerating, his sensitivity to the Fade is making it worse. Maker have mercy." Her shoulders slump, and she pinches her forehead, looking as dispirited as Dorian has ever seen the Iron Lady.

A pause. "What do we do?" Bull asks, sounding equally defeated.

"Early tomorrow morning, you, Iselen, and Dorian will go with him to the Darvaarad," Leliana responds. "When you go, you must make haste. Likely you would have gone already, but the Anchor's eruption caused him to be violently sick. He needed the night to recover, though it is time he does not have." She takes in a deep breath, and her eyes seem to be glimmering, though Dorian almost does not notice over the burgeoning, all-consuming terror within him. "He believes, and I agree with him, that the Darvaarad will be the last stage. He cannot say whether he will come back alive, and tomorrow, he will not have the time to say goodbye to you all personally. So he asked me to tell you all that it's been an honour and that he couldn't have spent the last few years with finer people."

At that, Dorian can't stop the sob that falls from his mouth, though it is quiet enough that only Iselen and Varric glance at him. "Aw, shit, no," Bull moans. "Tell him it's not gonna come to that."

"I pray you are right, Bull," Leliana says softly.

"But.. what about Adhlean?" Cassandra asks. Her voice is equally quiet.

"I believe he's saying goodbye to him right now," the Divine tells her. "If he dies, then the only thing that changes is that Adhlean returns to Clan Lavellan on a year-round basis."

A very long silence, broken only by Iselen's eloquent, "_Fuck._"

At last, Vivienne lets out a ragged sigh. "I suppose we should all try to get some sleep," she says. "Your Holiness, shall I tell the medical staff to make ready for his return tomorrow?"

"Yes," Leliana says. "His arm will almost certainly have to be amputated if he comes back." Dorian's stomach turns over at that, and again at the thought of Leas deprived of an arm, but he says nothing, only turns and follows the others as they head out of the room. While the rest of them, even Iselen, head back to their quarters, he turns and darts for Leas'.

As soon as he gets there, he starts banging on the door. "_Leas!_" he shouts, but his voice comes out cracked and not as demanding or as desperate as he'd hoped.

Somehow, Dorian finds it within him to wait and remember that in his current state, Leas will not be quick to reach the door. A minute or so later, the door cracks open, and one of Leas' golden eyes peers out at him. The shadows under it are worse than ever. "Dorian?" he groans. His voice is hoarse. "It's late. I need to sleep. What are you—"

"Let me _in_, _amatus_," Dorian snaps, panic translating easily into fury—with Leas, with his father, with the Qunari, with the Anchor, with this entire wretched situation. "_Now!_"

Leas makes a small noise of protest, but he opens the door anyway and steps aside to let Dorian in. Dorian staggers in, slamming the door closed behind him, and then turns to face this infuriating, impossible, _dying_ man. And dying he looks, with his skin as white as a corpse's, his eyes sunken in, his body skinnier than ever, and the Anchor pulsing steadily in his hand.

"Dorian?"

He struggles with his words for a moment, but there's no time to waste. "Leliana told us about your little… pyrotechnic display during your last chat," he says. His voice is rough. Fury turns to grief as quick as it began the more he stares at Leas. To lose him now… no, no, no. Not after everything.

Leas just looks down. He looks as defeated as Dorian has ever seen him.

"Why didn't you _say_ something?" he demands, and his voice breaks. His breath comes unevenly, and a tremor is starting in his extremities. Everything else—his father, Tevinter, the Qunari, all of it—is being pushed out of his head by Leas and his bloody mark. Even the world now seems limited to this very room. Maker, if only it was. "I could have… I don't know, something!"

What could he have done, really? But he can't face that truth yet.

"I didn't think it would start falling apart so fast," Leas says. "I thought I could control it for longer. Obviously, I was wrong. But…" He coughs and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, and distantly, Dorian wonders if he is feverish in addition to everything else.

"How bad is it? No, don't tell me. Let me see."

Leas shakes his head. "The sight of my arm is not something I wish to curse your dreams with, Dorian," he says. "You've got nightmares enough."

"Let me _see_ it," he hisses. "Fat lot of good it'll do, I know, but let me see."

They stare at each other for a moment, an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Then, at last, Leas sighs, clenches his marked hand into a fist, rolls up his sleeve, and lifts his arm, so it stands vertical in the air.

At once, Dorian wishes he'd listened.

Leas' forearm is black and rotting, the flesh wrinkled and creased worse than that of any centenarian. In places, it appears to have been sliced open and burned _from within_, and though these injuries are small, there is something so deeply unsettling about them that Dorian at once looks away from them. Leas' veins—all the way up to his elbow—glow the brightest green, and as the Anchor sparks, they too pulse brightly. His stomach churns as he sees the glow spread an inch past his elbow, advancing towards his shoulder. The upper arm is in a less abominable condition, but tendrils of scarring climb up from the elbow and reach past his shoulder, and observing them, Dorian knows they will be permanent.

_Maker have mercy._

Dorian retches before he can stop himself and is only barely able to swallow his rising bile. "Leas—"

Leas stares at the arm for a moment before dropping it and rolling his sleeve back down. "Whatever happens, I wouldn't trade the years we've had together for anything," he says, and he manages a smile truer than any of the ones he's flashed him since they arrived here. It brings a bit of pink into his cheeks, and it lights up his eyes with all the lustre and gleam that Dorian adores. "I love you. _'Ma vhen'an, var'lath juros min'vir. Mei cor_—and I'm sure you'll forgive my mangling of your native language—_nostri amor hic iter perpetietur._"

He says a little more, or tries to, but those words are enough to tear it. Dorian looks away, burying his face in his hands, tears flowing freely now. _Our love will endure this path._ "I knew you would break my heart, you… _bloody bastard_." The words have to climb out through what little of his throat that remains open, and they emerge strangled and broken.

In the next instant, Leas has his arms around him and is leaning into his chest. Dorian returns it, crushing him to his chest, uncaring of the sparks like knives in Leas' hand. "I have no intention of dying yet," he murmurs, while Dorian tries with all his might not to sob outright. "I survived the Blight, the Fade, Corypheus. I'll survive this, you wait and see."

Usually, Dorian would respond to that by saying that if he failed, then he would be obliged to revive him so he could kill him himself. But he's in no mood for such jests now. "I'm holding you to that," he says, and his voice is as firm as he can make it, which is to say, not much at all.

"Too much to live for, for me to want to die," Leas says. "Adhlean, Iselen, you… And nothing's ever stopped me when I had my mind to something. I intend to make sure my hand doesn't break the pattern." But his voice also cracks, and Dorian can hear the sliver of fear in it that belies his confident tone, and fresh tears fall. If Leas doesn't honestly think he'll survive… what chance do they have?

After a while, Leas stands up on his toes and rests their foreheads together. "I told you once what _arasha_ meant. And I know what _amatus_ means. Do you want to know what _'ma vhen'an_ means?"

Dorian nods.

"It means _my heart_, literally. More poetically, it means _wherever you are, that is my home_. And if you accuse me of being facetious, I _swear_—"

Dorian stops him by pulling him down and smashing their lips together, uncaring of the terrible angle or the renewed tears or how little time they have left or anything. Leas kisses him back at once, desperate, scrambling, holding onto every second that's slipping out of his fingers. Now he knows why a few days ago he kissed him like a man who would die tomorrow. Maybe the Anchor had been killing him even then.

He doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to lose that heat and passion and the feeling he'll never tire of, Leas' mouth on his, always gentle even now. But there's no more time, and so he pulls away after too short a moment, and Leas lets him go. "Maker, the things you say," he murmurs, and his voice is still shaking and weak.

"I mean every word," Leas says. "But that also means I'm not giving up on the whole 'come-to-Tevinter' business."

_Kaffas._ In all the madness of the last few days, he'd mostly forgotten about that. "I suspect that's a conversation to be had _after_ this is over. I won't tempt fate by making plans that I'm sure the Maker will lay to waste as soon as He hears of them."

Somehow, Leas manages a laugh. "Fine by me. One more reason to—_argh!_" Dorian startles back, but the green sparks he spots out of the corner of his eye in the next instant tell him everything. With a soft sigh, he pulls Leas back into his chest and holds him again while Leas gasps, cries out, whimpers, and rides out the episode.

When it's over, Leas collapses against him. "Bed. Now," he whispers. "I need sleep. And I love you, I love you, I love you. Enjoy hearing me say it while it lasts, because tomorrow, I'm not sure I'll be able to open my mouth without screaming."

"_Amatus…_" He should say the same, but the words, as ever, stick in his throat. For a time, Dorian struggles with himself, then he gives up, removes his clothes with no real ceremony, and when they've both done, joins Leas in bed.

He remains awake for most of the night, listening to Leas' gasps and cries of pain, holding him as tight as he can, getting up to follow Leas to the lavatory and comfort him when he throws up, casting what few spells he can to ease his fever, and wondering how long they'll have tomorrow before the Anchor takes him away forever. By this point, he's beyond tears—has entered the strange realm of utter resignation. Only Leas' words, _our love will endure this path_, give him some flicker of hope.

And even they seem hollow.

* * *

The next morning, they get up before dawn, and they don't bother with breakfast. They pull on their armour in grim silence, barring the occasional interruption where Leas cries out or rushes off to throw up. They don't speak a word. There's nothing left to say.

They head out and meet Iselen and Bull just outside. Leas pauses for a moment, then grabs Bull's hand and shakes it; if Bull looks a little pale and red-eyed as he returns it, Dorian pretends not to notice. Then Leas grabs his brother and pulls him into a hug, and Iselen can't even pretend to hide the fact that he's already weeping.

Just outside the room containing the eluvian, however, they find their companions and the three advisors, all in various states of dress and undress. Though the veins of his arm are now glowing even through his armour, Leas manages a grateful smile, and he spends the next few minutes shaking hands and saying goodbye. Few of their group have dry eyes—even Blackwall, Vivienne, and Cullen look on the verge of tears, while Josephine is sobbing outright. Even Sera, who Leas has never been close to, gives Leas a firm pat on the back and handshake and an appropriately Sera-esque farewell. Leas responds to this with a laugh and a promise that yes, he'll get the Qunari to 'eat it'.

Last of all is Adhlean, looking more exhausted than any thirteen-year-old has the right to be. Leas kneels before him, and Dorian can't hear most of the words they speak, but he doesn't need to. He watches Leas embrace his son, listens to the boy burst into tears and plea for him to come back, and he wonders if he would have done the same with his own father.

In the end… probably, yes.

After a moment, Leas stands and proceeds through the door, but Dorian's eyes remain on Adhlean for a while. A boy so young, whose father has always been consumed by other matters, who now stands on the verge of losing him for good; a lonely and miserable teenager who shakes and cries where he stands.

"I know it hurts," he murmurs, just as Iselen and Bull follow Leas into the room. "I know very well." Much as he's tried to pretend over the past few days that it hasn't, much as he's tried to ignore it… it does. It _does_.

Gone. Gone forever. No chance for anything more. All that could have been, brought to an abrupt halt, the wound of betrayal healed in the same moment that a new blow rent his heart in two. His protector, his idol, his first teacher, the one by whom he first measured all others, his betrayer, his disowner, many things… and now his shield, even to the death, and his martyr.

Gone. Gone forever.

"Save him," Adhlean murmurs. "Please."

"We'll try," Dorian tells him. "I can't promise you anything else."

Adhlean nods, head drooping, and turns away. Dorian takes that as his cue to follow the others into the room and through the eluvian, entering the Crossroads one last time.

* * *

In the end, he remembers little of the Darvaarad. There is much to note there, from the painting at the top of the research tower whose style reminds him of Solas', to the astrarium and the glowing pyramid, to the letter to the Inquisition disowning the Viddasala, to how oddly _weak_ Leas' spells are and how limited his pool of mana is, to the hordes of Qunari and Bull's look of growing desolation as he fights and kills more of them, to the _dragon_. But it all passes in a blur, each moment marked out only by the thing he is most focused on: the Anchor.

Contrary to his expectations, Leas _has_ been able to speak. But his steps have slowed almost to a crawl, and every eruption drags a scream of incomprehensible agony out of his throat, almost stops Dorian's heart. _This moment, then—now,_ he thinks every time, and ice floods his veins as if by reflex. But then, after a small eternity, Leas clambers back to his feet and carries on, and the relief that follows is warmer than the sun. Still, every eruption is worse than the last, takes longer for him to recover from, and each time, the ice becomes more and more lodged in his veins until the relief is only temporary. All they can do is drag him to his feet and whisper soothing words, and Dorian has never hated helplessness more.

Before the Viddasala, they are almost distracted by another bolt from the blue: Solas, an agent of Fen'Harel. Dorian does not need to look at the twins or hear the words they speak—Iselen's angry and disbelieving, Leas' despairing—to know how this wounds them. For a time, he forgets the Anchor as he struggles to process the revelation himself, wonders how much of what Solas told them was a lie, tries to figure out how to comfort them.

But then Leas collapses to his knees with another scream, almost bends over double as the Anchor erupts again, and all such thoughts vanish from his mind. After the Qunari have gone, but before they can act, Leas staggers back to his feet. In the dark, sweat pours down his fevered, deathly white face, and the expression in his eyes is focused, but wild in the manner of a dying man, and the sight of it chills Dorian to the bone. "Solas… is the only one… who can help with my mark…" Leas grits out, the words punctuated by gasps. "We find him… before the Viddasala does."

Usually, it is some comfort to have an end goal, a clear purpose. But not now. Now, Dorian only feels the urgent press of time, the indescribable terror that comes with the certainty that there is not _enough_ time. "_Amatus_, perhaps there is something—" he protests as they head towards the eluvian, following Leas' slow and deliberate steps.

"_You_… can do nothing," Leas gasps. "_I_… am already… _concentrating_. All my might… all the power Solas taught me… to control… to control this. I am bending the Veil around it… as best I can." More sparks, another cry, though he does not fall. "My whole mind must be given to this… or I would have… been dead half an hour ago." And Dorian knows that he does not lie, does not exaggerate, and from this point on, he also knows there will be no relief to be had even when Leas recovers from the eruptions. The only comfort they can have lies in the one who has seemingly betrayed them. The only hope there is—but in the face of the horror before them, Dorian finds he can take no solace in it until all is over and Leas is safe in his arms again.

They stumble through the eluvian, and it is not long before Bull and Iselen spot the Qunari racing up ahead and shout out. Time is of the essence, but every step Leas takes is now slow and measured, hampered by his agony and his concentration, and as much as Dorian wishes to urge him on, he knows it would be cruel. Speed is needed—but it may well be Leas' death.

All at once, however, Leas cries out.

"It's going to… everyone back!"

Before Dorian can so much as move a muscle, however, the Anchor _explodes_, throwing him and Bull and Iselen down what little of the hill they've climbed. In the same moment, the shockwaves tear through Dorian, scald his skin, and rattle his teeth. They hit the ground, all three of them swearing up a storm. Above, tortured cries rise from Leas, a worse sound than even the shrieks and growls of the darkspawn. As Dorian staggers to his feet, heart pounding away in his chest, they reach a hideous pitch, almost at the limit of what people can produce with their vocal cords, surely, and then—

Then they cut off.

"_Fuck!_" Bull bellows after a moment of shocked silence, and the three of them tear back up the hill. At the sight before them, Dorian almost falls to his knees.

Leas, collapsed on the ground, still as a stone.

"No, no, _no! Amatus!_" The words come out as more of a wail than a yell.

In the blink of an eye, he's on the ground next to Leas, and he and Iselen turn him over. The sight of Leas' chest still moving up and down, the press of his fingers to Leas' pulse and the too-fast beating of his heart beneath, are no balm to the terrible panic that had exploded in him, for when Dorian looks down at his arm, the sight he sees fills him with revulsion. The gauntlet of Leas' elaborate armour is _melting_, perhaps even fusing to the flesh, and from the gaps in the chainmail, smoke is rising, bringing with it a most pungent aroma that causes him to retch and spit up a small amount of vomit.

But he barely takes the time to wipe it off before he's pressing his hands to Leas' chest, shaking him as Iselen does. In his terror, he cannot concentrate enough to perform the necessary spell, though it is a basic one, and so he resorts to the most pedestrian of methods. It hardly matters—_Leas, for the love of the Maker, wake up! Wake up, you bastard! I'll let you fucking come to Tevinter if you just wake up!_

The next few minutes seem longer than the whole of Tevinter history as Iselen and Dorian shake Leas and try to shout him into consciousness, too far gone to do anything more sensible. Even Bull is not immune to their panic, though even in his fear, he restrains himself from shaking Leas, and instead turns him onto his back and positions his limbs just so, for what reason, Dorian cannot see. Perhaps it has some effect, however, for moments later, Leas' eyes flicker open, just as Dorian and Iselen both shout his nicknames for the hundredth time.

Even when Leas' eyes have fully opened, however, he only moans and paws at the melting armour of his arm with his good hand. With the dazed look in his eyes, he seems incapable of anything else, and that does nothing to ease the racing of Dorian's heart and the horror coursing through his veins.

"Oh, _shit_," Bull gasps, as he examines the arm. "Fucking Anchor crap! Boss, maybe I should carry you!"

A sensible offer, but Leas, whose eyes are focusing now, shakes his head. "It'll… keep… blasting," he whispers. "You'll… be hurt… Help… me up…" Wordlessly, tears flooding down his cheeks, Iselen does so, and amazingly, Leas regrips his staff and soldiers on. His steps are even slower and more deliberate than before, and he hunches his shoulders and has to dig his staff far into the ground with every step—but he's moving.

It's not over yet. In either direction. That thought alone somehow stirs Dorian's terror to heights he'd never thought possible. He is in such a frenzy of it that it feels like there's never been anything else like it; few other things in his life could compare.

They stagger through the ruins and the eluvians, fighting the Qunari as they come across them, and Dorian hates every second of delay and every metre that still lies between Leas and his potential salvation. More often than Dorian cares to wonder, Leas weaponises the Anchor, turns it to their advantage, discharges it while he is in the middle of the fray and the attention of most of the Qunari is on him. The explosions blast them all back, kill a few, and they seem to bring Leas relief—even if that relief can be measured only in the seconds. From across the battlefield, Dorian sees his veins glowing up to his shoulder, and he knows they may have only hours to spare.

If that.

There is one moment, however, while they're fighting the monster of a _saarebas_, that Leas forgets to discharge the Anchor in time. Dorian feels a rush as the air around him seems to be sucked up and away from him, and he whirls around in time to see Leas being lifted into the air by the force of the Anchor. His screams ring out and pierce Dorian's eardrums, and his body thrashes and writhes and contorts. He glows green all around, while in his hand the Anchor flares up to at least several times larger than the hand that bears it and blasts out bolts and arcs of energy in every direction. Behind him, the Qunari that was attacking him stops and stares too, and for a breathless moment, everything seems suspended.

Then the energy blasts out like a true explosion, and Dorian yells as it hurtles him back. The fury of the Anchor rips through him, setting his robe on fire and causing him a dreadful agony such as he has never known. For a second, it seems like he's having a rift opened _inside_ him. Then, as he comes back to himself, he remembers that this is only an echo of Leas' pain, though pain is undoubtedly the most inadequate word for this imaginable.

As soon as he has recovered himself, he finishes off the Qunari with a bolt of ice to the heart, then races over to Leas, who staggers to his feet, gasping and groaning. His armour is soaked in blood and vomit from when he threw up all over himself somewhere along the way, and when he looks up, Dorian's blood chills yet _again_, for Leas' eyes are glowing green now—not just his irises, but his whites and his pupils. There is nothing to see but magic.

"Andraste's flaming fucking sword," he gasps, along with a small collection of other, less polite curses.

But Leas only draws his spirit blade—not as steady as usual, not as strong—and hurls himself at the _saarebas_, and that alone reminds Dorian of the situation. So he returns to the fight, but that leaves him with almost nothing to distract him from the hatred of every moment that passes without progress, from the crystallising image in his head that Leas will soon be nothing more than a charred corpse on the ground.

They allow themselves no rest afterwards, instead hurrying on through the remaining eluvians to the wide-open space where they meet what Dorian imagines are the remnants of the Qunari. So close, so tantalisingly close, he thinks as they fight, driven into a frenzy by the pressing time and the wild hope dangling in front of them, for Leas _is_ still alive… but perhaps not close enough. It could all still go so wrong…

Before they know it, they've only the _saarebas_ left to deal with, again, and as they battle him, Dorian channels all his burgeoning hatred and wrath into it. He almost sees the Anchor, almost sees his father, almost sees the ones who killed him, the Qunari as a whole, the Exalted Council, anything and everything that's made the last week so hellish. He snarls and yells as he flings his fireballs and uses all his abilities as a necromancer to their best advantage; there is no grace in how he fights now, only fierce desperation and rage and a primal need to get this over with as fast as possible. Next to him, Leas fights worse than ever, his mana pool and the strength of his spells apparently reduced to those of a child's, and he sinks down further and further as the combat drags on. By the end, he is almost crawling, and Dorian has to stand guard over him to keep the _saarebas_ from taking advantage of his weakness.

"Nothing's working on him! Use the mark!" Iselen screams after their spells have had no effect on the _saarebas_ for what seems like a small eternity.

Leas groans, but he raises his hand without protest and aims it for the _saarebas_' heart. Then he discharges the energy that was already starting to sear up to his elbow.

* * *

"Dorian!"

Bull's voice snaps him out of his ruminations, and Dorian blinks as he looks up at him. "_Kaffas!_ What is it?"

"It's been about half an hour," Bull says. He gets to his feet as he speaks and eyes the eluvian, distinctly nervous and at the end of his rope. "I _think_ we should go. Not sure if we can leave the boss' life to a few more minutes."

"_Fasta vass_, we cannot," Dorian mutters. He clambers to his feet in about the same moment as Iselen. Then he grips his staff, fear already building again, and tears through the eluvian, passing through the glowing glass with a minimum of effort. What had seemed so strange and out of this world but a few days ago now is totally ordinary. Not that he thinks much of that idea as he ends up on the other side and comes face to face with a snarling Qunari turned to stone.

The sight prompts him to let out another stream of curses, and when Bull and Iselen join him, he hears Iselen emit a shout of surprise and Bull start swearing even more creatively and loudly. His voice trembles, a clear note of horror mingling with his incredulity.

Dorian allows them no time to recover from the shock. Instead, he sets off sprinting through the gardens, which would be a beautiful sight if his vision of Leas' corpse wasn't getting easier to see by the second. "Is this the point where you find a bar and you drink it?" Iselen mutters to Bull as they pick up the pace behind him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it is," Bull says.

The further they go with no sight of Leas, the more Dorian's panic crowds out all other sights, all other sensations. "Leas!" he calls out. "Leas, can you hear us?"

They reach the steps to the upper level of the garden and take them two at a time, or four in Bull's case. "Uvun! Uvun, _ele garal! Ema sul!_" Iselen cries. Whatever he may be saying, his desperation is a perfect match for Dorian's. The world blurs and almost disappears, and with every second that they hear and see nothing of Leas, his heart pounds a little faster, and he prays more sincerely to the Maker than he ever has in his life.

Bull reaches the top of the steps first, and as soon as he does, he freezes; Dorian and Iselen almost slam into him. "Shit!"

The force with which he speaks that lone word is enough. The breath leaving him in a rush, the ground falling out from beneath his feet, his heart coming to a sudden and violent halt, everything around him suspended in a single instant, Dorian peers out from around him. He sees before an eluvian of incredible size a silent, unmoving, golden body, stretched out flat on his face in a puddle of blood.

He loses all track of everything. What he says, what Iselen says, what he does—it matters not. There's only that sight, followed by the moment where he reaches the body and collapses almost on top of it, deaf to his wordless cries and Iselen's hysterical screams, blinded by the tears flooding down his face again. "_Amatus,_" he gasps, turning Leas over and seeing for himself the total pallor of his face, an expression on it too peaceful to belong to life. "_Amatus, vir mei somnia, please—!_"

At this moment, Bull assumes control, knocking Dorian's hand out of the way and ignoring his shout of protest. His fingers trace up Leas' bloodied, vomit-covered breastplate to his neck, and in the next several seconds that pass, Dorian is sure his heart doesn't beat once. His hands are shaking violently, and his stomach churns. _Maker, Maker, please, I beg you…_

At last, Bull pulls his hand away. "He's alive," he says, and Dorian sags with relief, heart restarting and breath filling his lungs again. His vision comes back into focus, and the trembling in his hands eases somewhat.

Next to him, Iselen lets out a wordless sob. "Now what?" he whimpers.

Bull sighs and looks down. "I would normally suggest a healing spell or potion, but…" He trails off just as the stench of burnt and _rotting_ flesh reaches Dorian's nose, causing him to retch. He clutches at Leas' arm, holds it like it could crumble at any second, and after a moment's hesitation, turns it over. His stomach churns again at the sight: the armour melted and fused to the flesh, and through the few gaps that he can see, the flesh is so black and charred that it doesn't even look like flesh. No question, it is beyond his ability—beyond _anyone's_ ability.

"Yeah, that," Bull says. "We don't have the time—_he_ doesn't have the time—to get his armour off. Which of you can run faster?"

They glance at each other. After a moment, Iselen sighs. "I think I am."

"Get back to the palace and warn them. If he's gonna have a chance at surviving this, he needs to be seen to as soon as he arrives. Actually, probably half an hour _before_ he arrives, but… shit. Just _go!_ I'll carry him!" He snaps the last words, and Iselen hesitates for the barest moment before getting to his feet and tearing off down the hill with all the speed that he can muster. If Dorian knows him, he won't slow down even for an instant, no matter how much it hurts him or how out of breath he may be.

For half a moment, as he stares at Leas' limp, bleeding form, Dorian considers objecting again and demanding that he be the one to carry him. But as quickly, he realises why that would not be a good idea. He cannot run as fast when he is carrying Leas, and they cannot afford—_he_ cannot afford—any delay. No, better that Bull take him.

So Dorian sighs, and with still-trembling hands, he casts the only healing spell he knows that might be of any use. "That will slow his bleeding, at least for a while," he murmurs, just as Bull scoops Leas up into his arms.

"Sure thing, but he's gonna need a lot more than that. Grab his staff. Let's beat it."

As soon as Dorian has snatched up Leas' staff, they take off. Bull runs as if Leas' weight is nothing to him, and it is not long before he is far ahead and Dorian has much to do just to keep him in sight, though he runs as fast as he can. His muscles are aching, and soon, every step is painful, and they have not gone through many eluvians before he can feel a horrible stitch forming in his side. But he need only think of Leas, limp and pale and bleeding, so very vulnerable, to speed his steps again. All the while, he prays and prays, and he wonders if maybe they should have gone after only twenty minutes. If Leas dies for their delay…

Maker, he'll never forgive himself.

Back and back and back they go, and Dorian notices as little of the scenery as he did before, verdant though it is. The least that can be said is that nothing impedes their progress now, unlike before, but that is little comfort to him. He can't get the sight of Leas out of his head, and the smell of charred, rotting flesh still lingers in his nostrils. As they re-enter the Darvaarad and he almost trips over his aching, protesting feet, he considers the idea that that may well be the last sight he ever has of him, if things go badly when they return to the palace. That alone is almost enough to drive him to his knees.

As with so many other things today, it seems an eternity before they at last return to the Crossroads and race up to the palace's eluvian. Just in front of this eluvian awaits Iselen and a small team of medical staff, two of them bearing a stretcher. Vivienne is among them, and she already has a healing spell prepared. Bull sprints towards them while Dorian finally lets himself come to a halt and promptly doubles up panting. He looks up in time to see the man lay Leas on the stretcher with surprising gentleness, and the healers get to work at once. As Vivienne directs them and works her own spells, Dorian staggers towards them, but he's so out of breath that words fail him entirely.

"Do you _smell_ that, Madame de Fer?" one of the healers murmurs, eyebrows flying up.

"I do, my dear," Vivienne says grimly. She sighs. "Get him into the infirmary. Find the surgeon. He'll be losing his forearm at the very least, and probably more than that." Before Dorian can protest, the nurses pick up the stretcher, and the whole group, sans Iselen and Vivienne, disappears through the eluvian.

She looks back at them and seems to stare pityingly at Dorian, perhaps recognising his expression. "You know this could never have ended any other way, darling," she says. Her voice is soft.

Dorian can only stare at her and shake his head. He's still too breathless and in too much pain from his stitch to say anything, though he can feel the tears leaking from his eyes yet again.

"He's in good hands," Vivienne says. "We _will_ take care of him."

"How long will it take?" Iselen asks.

"That depends on how much we need to cut off," she responds. "Hours, at least, and he won't regain consciousness for a couple of days. I suggest the three of you go find the others and explain what happened. I'll send a messenger when the operation is complete."

Bull nods. "Will do, ma'am." Apparently satisfied that he speaks for all of them, Vivienne walks back through the eluvian, and Bull looks back at him.

"Come on, Dorian," he says, and Dorian sighs, staggers over to him, ignoring the screaming pain in his legs, and passes through the eluvian with him. Iselen follows.

The moment they turn the corner to head out of the room and back into the central gardens of the Winter Palace, they are met with Adhlean, who looks as pale as death as he stares up at them. "I saw them take the stretcher by," he says, wringing his hands. "Is he…?"

"We saved him," Dorian pants. "At least, for now."

"Now he needs surgery," Iselen adds, putting an arm around his nephew. "He might be missing a bit when we see him next."

Adhlean's face falls, but then he nods. "Well, better than him being dead," he says, and he wipes his forehead and exhales.

"Quite," Iselen says. "Now let's go find the others. We've got a _long_ wait ahead of us."

So saying, they walk off, and Dorian heads after them. For the time being, he's too tired to think beyond his desire to find a place to sit down. After the madness and heart-stopping terror of the past too many hours, he considers that a blessed relief.

* * *

**Translations**

_"Mei cor."_: "My heart."

_"Ele garal! Ema sul!"_: "We're coming! Hold on!"

_"Vir mei somnia."_: "Man of my dreams."

Elven translation taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


	3. The Aftermath

The wait after they gather the rest of the inner circle and explain the situation is interminable. The advisors depart—Josephine and Leliana to attend to the Exalted Council, Cullen to tell their soldiers to stand down—but the rest of them remain in the war room, mostly silent. Bull, Sera, and Blackwall bring back what looks like half the stock of the tavern and distribute it amongst everyone (though Bull takes the lion's share), but apart from the drinking, the occasional murmured question and answer, the game of Wicked Grace Varric is running, and the pacing, there is little to hear.

Dorian sits and waits, and he speaks to no one. That his robes are singed and covered in blood, that his legs still ache, that he hasn't been so utterly exhausted like this in years—he notices none of these things. His mind is in whatever room where they're operating on Leas, turning over all the scenarios he can conjure up. Will Leas' illness affect the surgery? What about his blood loss? How much will they have to take off? What if there are complications? If he never wakes up? If their last moments together were nothing but one sloppy kiss and Leas barely able to speak through his pain?

_Nothing will truly keep us apart._ Nothing but death itself, and for as often as Leas has cheated death, once it catches up with him, there'll be nothing that any of them can do. The mere thought sets his breathing ragged again, and he snatches a nearby tankard and brings it to his lips, uncaring of whatever concoction it may contain. If it weren't for the wait itself, he would already be shitfaced, and as he looks at Bull, already a little intoxicated, Dorian feels a stirring of envy. _Lucky bastard, able to block it all out like this, nothing that requires him to wait._

Not that Bull had a much easier time of it today, Dorian reminds himself, but the thought disappears as fast as it comes. When he has drained the tankard, he gets up and stares out the window, watching the sun sink below the horizon. The colours are beautiful, all red and gold and brilliant orange, and Leas, were he here, would have taken the time to point them out. _See, that's nature, Dorian. Surely you can appreciate _that_._

_It's _nature_ that I can appreciate from the comfort of civilisation,_ he would have said. _Not like your blasted forests._ And Leas would have giggled and made some teasing rejoinder about the verdant nature of forests, the many animals and bountiful flora, and how peaceful it could be, away from the bustle of civilisation. To _that_, he would have responded with some pithy line about ticks and diseases and dirt, and a playful argument would have ensued from there.

_Would have,_ he chides himself. _So despairing. Just wait. You'll have that argument again. Nostri amor hic iter perpetietur._ The words seem less hollow now that they've got Leas back to the palace, now that he's in surgery, but rather than use them as a touchstone—the way Leas had clearly intended for him—Dorian finds he'll only believe in them _after_ the whole mess is over. Which… rather defeats the purpose, he supposes, but rationality when it comes to Leas isn't his strong suit.

As the sun sets, Dorian sighs and returns to his chair. Maker, he could do with some sleep, but… not yet. Even if he wanted to, he doubts he _could_ sleep until he knows what's going on, and looking around him, he suspects the same is true of everyone else. Adhlean and Iselen look the most exhausted of them all, but they remain keen and alert in their seats, wearing identically grim expressions marred only by the slightest twinge of fear. Iselen glances at him for a moment and nods once, and Dorian returns it. That is as much sympathy as they can show each other.

He sits back, and he waits, and his stomach churns as he returns to considering the many dreadful alternatives before him.

* * *

Hours later, when the moon is high in the sky, Bull is unconscious on the table and surrounded by empty tankards, and several of them have also gone to sleep where they sit, the door opens. Dorian at once leaps to his feet, and in the next moment, Vivienne herself appears, rather than a messenger. She looks as tired as the rest of them, and her clothes are bloodied, but she carries herself in the same dignified manner as always as she takes in those of them who are still awake.

"Well?" Iselen says, as he sits on the edge of his chair and grips the arms of it. In the dark, his eyes are wide, shining with a wild, fierce hope mingled with desperation.

"The operation was a success, my dears," Vivienne tells them, and at once, Dorian closes his eyes and lets out a breath he only barely realises he'd been holding in. "A few minor complications, but nothing that we couldn't handle. We've returned him to his quarters, and he should be awake within the next few days."

"And his arm?" Dorian presses. "How much did you remove?"

She turns to him, and though she looks calm, there is no triumph in her face. "Everything, including his shoulder, I'm afraid," she says, and Dorian's heart sinks. "There was too much damage for even his upper arm to be salvaged. And he has a new set of rather extensive scars that reach almost all the way to his heart."

_Oh, he will hate that,_ is Dorian's first thought, remembering Leas and his vanity. Something like this will no doubt strike a terrible blow to his self-image… but at least he's alive. That has to count for something. He's pulled through the fire, and for the first time in days, Dorian can breathe easy.

"When can we see him?" Adhlean murmurs.

Vivienne pauses and seems to deliberate for a moment. Then she offers Adhlean a soft smile and says, "The three of you can go to him now if you wish, but I advise against letting anyone else enter. We don't want to overwhelm him, after all. But if you go now, bear in mind that it'll be at least a full day before he wakes up, and probably longer considering how much stress his body had to endure."

Dorian rises from his seat. "All the same, I _think_ we'll go now," he says, his voice coming out harsh and ragged. Once again, his eyes are wet, and he wipes at them hastily.

"Agreed," Iselen says, standing also. He pauses a moment then adds, "Thank you, Vivienne. For everything."

The relationship between those two has never been friendly, but just this once, Vivienne smiles. "You are welcome," she says. Then she steps aside, letting the three of them pass out of the room.

They make their way to Leas' quarters in silence, Dorian's shoulders shaking as the relief washes over them. "See? We saved him," he says to Adhlean, who looks back at him and offers a weary smile. He says nothing, however, and no more words are spoken as they walk across the grounds of the palace and into the corridor leading to Leas' room. At the door, however, they find two elves already there.

Iselen pauses. "Telahmisa? Taralen?"

The two jump and look back at them. "Ah! Iselen!" Taralen says hurriedly. "Here to see Leas, I guess."

"Yeah. You are, as well? Vivienne said nobody else could come in."

Telahmisa shakes her head and shows them a pair of bottles. "We're just dropping off some of the medicine he'll need to take," she says, while Taralen looks away and shifts on his feet. "This one will help with the pain, and this will block his access to the Fade if he needs it."

Iselen nods. "_'Ma serannas._ I imagine he will." Telahmisa smiles, and Taralen makes an attempt at it, but it comes out as more of a grimace. Then he opens the door, and they head inside. A minute or so later, they re-emerge and pass back down the corridor, and the three of them enter the room, Adhlean shutting the door behind them.

They step over to the bed, Dorian summoning a ball of light and throwing it up into the air as they get closer, banishing the darkness that mostly obscures Leas from sight. When at last he sees him, his heart sinks yet again.

Even now that all is over, Leas still looks ghastly pale, and in the light, his face seems almost skull-like. For a long moment, Dorian remains doggedly fixed on it, not daring to cast his eyes further down and see what he knows awaits them, but Iselen's quiet curse and Adhlean's sudden inhale force him to do so. Heart pounding away in his chest again, gut clenching and writhing, sweat building on his temples despite the coldness of the night, he looks down and focuses, and much like Adhlean, he gasps.

There's nothing there anymore. Not even Leas' shoulder. The collarbone remains, but it terminates abruptly and is heavily bandaged where the shoulder should be. The bare skin is wrinkled and covered in tendrils of pale, branching scars that extend under the duvet that covers Leas' chest. Remembering Leas as he _was_, recalling how he used to gesticulate with that arm, how he held it when he was swinging his spirit blade, how he would use that marked hand to stroke Dorian's hair in their quiet moments together… 'jarring' doesn't even _begin_ to describe it. The tears spring to his eyes yet again, and he sinks into a nearby seat.

"Oh, _fenedhis_," Iselen mutters, and he bows his head.

"Uh, is he drooling?" Adhlean says, and Dorian briefly glares at him, wondering how he could make such a remark at a time like this, before he looks back at Leas. Focusing on his face again, he realises that the boy speaks the truth.

"That's not saliva," Iselen says, frowning. He bends over and wipes it away. "That's… some sort of liquid. Were they feeding him the medicine while he slept? I was wondering what was taking so long."

"Vivienne didn't say anything about that," Dorian comments, but then he sighs. "I suppose if they got their orders from one of the other doctors…"

Iselen nods and withdraws for a moment, taking a chair and bringing it up to the edge of the bed. He sits and lays his head on his twin's chest. "Right. If it helps, it helps. Anyone else want to sleep here tonight?"

Adhlean chuckles weakly. "Do you need to ask?" So saying, he casts off his boots and clambers up onto the other end of the bed and curls up around his father's feet. He doesn't even bother to take his clothes off. Watching him, Dorian realises he should do the same, but he's so worn out from the day's events that he finds he can't be bothered, either. If nothing else, he wants to be here when Leas awakes, even if that might not be for a few days yet.

So he brings his chair forward too, and he reaches out for Leas' hand before remembering, with a pang, that it's not there anymore. Then he sighs and lays his head down on the bed, still shaking somewhat. Sleep claims him within minutes.

* * *

Leas continues unconscious for the whole of the next day and much of the day after. While he slumbers, attended to by Vivienne, Telahmisa and Taralen (who do indeed feed him more of the medicine), and the other doctors, Dorian at last consents to go to the bathhouses, clean himself up, and change his clothes. He does all this hurriedly, however, and he doesn't even bother with his usual morning routine, even if that means that by the second day, he's got a little more stubble than usual and his hair is a complete mess. Iselen and Adhlean are at least in similar states, and they still look healthier than Leas himself, who continues to look like death warmed over.

The others pop in and out, some of them leaving little gifts and treats for when Leas wakes up (even Sera, though she has to do a lot of fast talking to convince Dorian she's _not_ there to leave a prank for him). As the time passes, Leas' breathing gets heavier, and some colour returns to his face; in the evening of the first day, his eyes even flicker open a few times before closing again seconds later. It is slow in the extreme, a different kind of agony, but after all the madness of the last few days, Dorian finds that he welcomes it. He'll take this pain over the heart-stopping terror of not having enough time.

Early in the afternoon of the second day, Leas starts to wake up, but in his first few minutes of consciousness, he is drowsy, unaware of his surroundings, unable to communicate, and he falls asleep again soon enough. This pattern repeats many times, with Leas being a little more aware and able to stay awake just a bit longer on each occasion. Then, at last, late in the afternoon, his eyes open again, and he blinks and looks around him, then shifts his gaze to Iselen and smiles.

"Iselen, hey," he rasps.

"Uvun!" Iselen cries out. He immediately bends over him. "How are you feeling?"

Leas' smile widens, though Dorian has to crane around Iselen to see it. Adhlean scrambles around to the other side of the bed. "Tired. And still sick. But… like I've just been dunked in cold water on a hot day. I feel so _good_. The pain… still sick, but the pain has stopped. You can't imagine how that feels."

Iselen shakes his head. "I don't suppose I can," he says. He glances up at Adhlean, then leans back. "Look around. I'm not the only one here." Leas looks first to the other side of the bed, and he smiles at the sight of his son.

"_'Ma'hallain,_" he says warmly. "_An'eth'ara._"

"_An'eth'ara, Babae,_" Adhlean responds, dispensing with what Dorian understands are the typical elven responses to greetings.

"I'm so sorry. These last few days must have been horrible."

Adhlean nods. His eyes are wet. "Yeah, but… you're alive. That's okay. It's okay." Leas smiles a little wider, and Adhlean buries his face in his chest, prompting him to pull out his remaining arm from under the duvet and stroke and ruffle his hair. As he does so, he murmurs soothing words, and he keeps doing so until Adhlean looks up and pulls away.

"It'll be all right, _'ma'hallain_," Leas tells him, holding his gaze well despite his clear weariness. "I promise."

Adhlean's mouth twitches in an attempt at a smile. "Yes, _Babae_," he says, then he steps back. Leas' gaze now wanders again and soon meets Dorian's.

A pause, then his smile gets only wider while Dorian's shoulders sag. "Dorian," he says. "Oh, you look a mess. Did you sleep here?"

Dorian looks at him askance. "I did, but—_I_ look a mess! _Me!_ _Festis bei umo canavarum_, what about _you_, you damnable idiot?" The words pour out of his mouth before he can think about them, much like lava out of a volcano, and the familiarity of them helps to ground him, to ease some of the tension in his muscles.

Leas manages a weak chuckle. "I suppose I look ghastly," he says. "No surprise. But you stayed? Thank you."

"Well, what _else_ was I going to do?" Dorian demands, folding his arms. "You didn't expect me to remain in my own quarters while you were recovering from—" For once, he's able to jam his mouth shut before he finishes the sentence. He doesn't even need Iselen's warning look to do so.

But Leas' smile doesn't waver. "Aww," he teases. "I love you, too. And thank you, all of you. Now, what are these…?" His eyes have flickered to his bedside table, and they fall on the bottles and the gifts that the others left for him.

"Medicine and some presents, and something that'll block your connection to the Fade, if you don't want any nightmares," Iselen says.

Leas nods, but at the word 'Fade', his smile finally drops. He raises his head off the pillow, but he's only able to hold it up for a few seconds before slumping back down again. "Oh, Creators, the Fade. That reminds me. Solas… we have a very, _very_ serious problem there."

Iselen groans. "Of course we do. How bad is it?"

"_Apocalyptic_ if we don't do anything. He—"

"Oh, for the love of—!" Adhlean cries, while Dorian buries his face in his hands, just as exasperated. "_Really?_"

"Really," Leas says. He catches Iselen and Dorian's gazes again. "Listen. Solas isn't an agent of Fen'Harel. He _is_ Fen'Harel."

A moment's pause, then Iselen jumps like he's been burned and screams, "_WHAT?!_" Next to him, the blood drains from Adhlean's face, and he takes a step back from the bed that seems to be almost instinctual. For his part, Dorian knows enough of Dalish legends to at least partially understand why this is such a shock to the three, but he remains where he stands, looking at Leas, waiting for more. The words will never have the same meaning for him.

Leas nods. "Yeah. I worked it out in the ruins, but I couldn't say. We had a long talk about it, but to give the quick précis, he's got his own agents in the Inquisition, he dragged the dead Qunari into the palace because he wanted us to stop the Qunari plot, he formed the Veil to free the ancient elves from the gods—the Evanuris, he called them—and, and this is a doozy… he wants to pull it back down."

That causes Dorian to jump. "I'm sorry, he wants to do _what_? Destroy the Veil?"

"Yes. Elvhenan was built on magic, so when he formed the Veil, it all fell to pieces. That's why we started ageing, became mortal. He wants to restore that world, but in so doing, he would destroy this one. I told him I couldn't allow him to do that, that I would show him another way. Then he took the Anchor and left, and I passed out. There's more to it than that, but…"

Iselen blows out a long breath and runs his hands over his face. "Shit," he gasps. "Shit. _Shit._ So our legends were half-right. He _did_ play a part in our fall, even if…"

"Even if his intentions were good, yes," Leas says. "Please, one of you must warn the Council and the others. We've got another war to prepare for."

Adhlean whimpers, while Dorian shakes his head in stunned disbelief and tries to comprehend the words he's just heard. They spin around his head in a maelstrom, nonsensical to say the least; he cannot even begin to understand them or their implications. "Oh, no," the teenager says. "Saving the world _again_, _Babae_?"

"So it would seem. But first… the arm. That's easier to grapple with."

So it is, and isn't it a wonderful life when an amputation is an easier subject to understand? Sighing, Dorian tries to shake his head free of his whirling thoughts, and he focuses his gaze on Leas again. A mere glance at his collarbone is enough to get his lip quivering, though he tries to hide it.

"The arm, yes," Iselen says. "Or… well. How is it feeling?"

Leas sighs and makes an attempt at jiggling his collarbone. "Like there's still something there," he says. "I keep expecting to be able to twitch my fingers. But I can't. It's… disorienting. Well, let me have a look." At once, Iselen pulls back the duvet until it rests over Leas' waist. Adhlean sucks in his breath again, and on impulse, Dorian heads around to the other side of the bed and grasps Leas' hand tightly in his own.

Leas shoots him a grateful smile. Then he takes in a deep breath and looks down.

For a long moment, he continues to attempt to move his collarbone, fruitless though it may be, and after a while, he withdraws his hand from Dorian's grip and touches both the bandages and the scarred skin. With the duvet out of the way, Dorian can see that the scars extend nearly as far as his heart, and his breath catches as he realises just _how_ close Leas had come to dying. Another half-hour, another attack, and that would have been the end of him.

All seems suspended as Leas examines the stump, everything in the world waiting on his reaction. Finally, however, he sighs and slumps back down. "Well," he says, "it doesn't _hurt_. Much. And I'm _alive_. That's something."

Iselen grimaces. "Silver linings, I guess?"

Leas laughs, but the sound is off—it's too high-pitched, too reedy. Dorian's heart clenches. "Silver linings, yes. I'm alive. That was as close as I've ever come to death. I'm… _urgh_…" He groans and retches, and Dorian stares at him.

After a moment, the episode, or whatever it is, comes to an end. Leas glances up at him. "Sorry. Like I said, still sick. I'm glad I didn't throw up, however—not that I had anything _left_ to…" He sighs and shakes himself. "I'm alive. That's the important thing."

"But," Dorian protests, "are you all right?"

Leas smiles at him, and though it reaches his eyes, it still seems a little hollow, a little stilted. "I am. I'd rather be like this than dead. The rest… oh, I'll sort it out later." He yawns, not noticing Dorian narrowing his eyes at him. "There're Solas and the Council to worry about, and the Inquisition…"

"Later. Worry about it _later_," Iselen says. "You look like you need to go back to sleep."

"I do at that," Leas admits. "Give me some of that medicine, will you please? Both types. I don't feel like dreaming right now."

Iselen nods, grabs the bottles, and pulls their tops off, and Dorian watches as he takes a nearby spoon, dips it in the first mixture, then feeds his brother. When he takes it, Leas coughs and gags, face twisting, and afterwards, he seems a little paler than before. But once he has recovered himself, he nods, and Iselen feeds him the latter. After it's over, he lays down again, and Dorian pulls the covers back over his chest.

"Thanks," he says. "Now go on, get out of here. Find the others and tell them what I said. I'm hoping I'll be up for longer tomorrow. Come see me again in the evening if you want to." Adhlean and Iselen both nod and embrace Leas as best they can for a moment, then they leave.

"You go as well, Dorian," Leas says after they've gone. "Get some sleep. I know I've caused you such abominable stress. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Dorian murmurs as he strokes his hair and cheek. "But… _never again_."

Leas manages another weak chuckle. "I'll do my best, though given what Solas is planning, that may not be possible," he says. "Well, how are _you_? This past week must have been hellish."

"That's one way of describing it," Dorian says. "But I'm just _fine_. Really. Just absolutely _perfect_." His tone takes on a mocking note, and he glares pointedly at Leas, who grins at him, expression sheepish.

"We can talk about it later," he tells him. "Go on, _'ma vhen'an_. Get some rest. And—I was right, wasn't I?"

"Right? About what?"

Leas' grin turns into an affectionate smile, and his eyes are soft as he stares up at him. "What I said the night before the Darvaarad. _Var'lath juros min'vir._ It came to pass. I was right."

Dorian sighs, though he can't keep from smiling back at him. _Maker, he'll live,_ he realises, and that alone both brings tears to his eyes and causes his smile to broaden. He kneels down for a moment and kisses Leas on the forehead, then the temple, then at last on the lips. Despite his weakness, Leas kisses back.

"You were, _amatus_," he murmurs as he pulls away. Leas awkwardly lifts his remaining hand to stroke his cheek, then lets him go. Dorian regards him for a moment before turning away, chest shaking, tears threatening to spill over once more, relief flooding his veins with a warm glow that serves as the best possible balm to all the terror and despair of the past week he can imagine.

Still, as he leaves, he wonders if Leas is truly as 'all right' as he claims.

* * *

The next day brings with it another flurry of activity, as Leas is called up to address the Council. (Much to Dorian's private fury; should they not give the man more time to _rest_?) Dorian stands in the back of the hall with the others, watching as Leas stands tall and proud before the Council though he'd thrown up into a pot not long before arriving and had had to be half-carried here. He listens to Leas give his speech, hears the sadness, even the betrayal, in every word he says—grief underlined by his ultimate declaration to disband the Inquisition.

_Ah, poor man,_ Dorian muses with shoulders slumped once he has processed the initial shock of _Leas_ deciding to get rid of the organisation he has so proudly led. _Your organisation ruined and torn from you by corruption and betrayal, after all that you have done. A sad yet not uncommon fate. You deserved better._

More than that, he deserves better than _another_ loss, so soon after losing his arm, only a few months after being exiled from his clan. And as the day passes by, and the days following it, it becomes clear that this is not all Leas will be losing. The others make preparations to leave; a few, such as Sera and Varric, depart right away. Iselen and Adhlean at first insist on staying with Leas, but Leas tells them to go back to the clan as soon as possible and spread the word of Fen'Harel, a request to which they reluctantly accede. Dorian would stay longer if he could, but the end of the year is nigh, and it would be best for him to get back to Tevinter as soon as possible after the new year. He does not need a pointed (if sympathetic) letter from Maevaris to tell him that.

But how dreadful, he thinks as he helps Leas get into his sleeping clothes one night, only a few days after the end of the Inquisition, two nights before he has to leave. Leas is coughing and groaning, but less so than before; Dorian hopes that is a sign that his illness is ending. Small consolation that will be, however, when everyone has left or is about to leave, and the Inquisition is gone, and his arm, and he has no clan to return to, nothing to buoy him but another potential apocalypse and a vague promise from Dorian that he can come to visit him in Tevinter, eventually. A terrible fall from grace, and judging by the grimace twisting Leas' face as he struggles, he's more aware of it than anyone.

When he's finally in his sleeping clothes, Leas collapses on the bed with another groan. Dorian sits down next to him. "Have you given any thought as to what you will do now, _amatus_?" he asks cautiously while Leas shuffles around and places his head in his lap. In response, Dorian runs his hands through Leas' waves, even lanker and more devoid of their typical shine than ever.

Leas sighs and closes his eyes. "I've opted to stay in Halamshiral for the time being. There's still much to do, dismantling the Inquisition, and I don't want to go anywhere, not like this." His mouth twists. "But I think I'll stay even after I've recovered. Try to keep the peace."

A pause. "Keep the peace?" Dorian prompts him.

"There's been a lot of elven servants and city elves disappearing, as I'm sure you know," Leas says, and Dorian nods. "I can make a guess at where they're going—or rather, who they're joining. You can bet that as soon as people learn about Solas and what he's planning, if they don't go into denial, there'll be a backlash. And for all I've done, the elves are still at a disadvantage. So I will stay and try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum."

Dorian cringes. "Good luck with that, _amatus_," he says, then adds, realising his words didn't sound at all encouraging, "I mean it. If anyone can keep the peace between our two races at a time like this…"

"Yeah. Though hopefully, it won't blow up in my face like everything else," Leas says, tone distinctly bitter. "Oh, look at us both. Off to carry out seemingly impossible tasks. Keyword being _seemingly_, I guess."

"And don't you forget it," Dorian tells him, hating the cynicism in Leas' words and every line of his face, all the more so because it's so very un-Leas-like. "I'll wrangle Tevinter into submission, and _you'll_ keep the peace until it's time to deal with Solas. You'll see. You've pulled off greater miracles."

Leas blows out a long breath through his mouth. "I hope you're right," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't like me. It's just…"

"A lot's happened in a short time," Dorian says, stroking his hair and his cheek with a feather-light touch. "I know. I wish I could have got more time to spend with you, but…"

"No, I understand. Don't mind me." His countenance remains morose, and Dorian's heart clenches at the sight. Carefully, he lays down and pulls Leas up to join him, then wraps his arms around the man's waist. Leas tucks himself into his side, though the action seems instinctual as much as anything.

"I won't be alone," he adds after a moment. "Telahmisa and Taralen will be staying, too. We were never close, but they've been a great help throughout all this. It'll be good to have some familiar company."

"I'm glad to hear it," Dorian says, pressing a kiss to Leas' temple. "And Leliana and Cassandra won't be so far away, either. And you still have the crystal."

Leas nods. "Fully expect to hear from me every night after you leave," he says. "I'm going to miss you." His voice tightens and trembles, and Dorian holds him a little closer.

After a moment's thought, he caves and ask the obvious question, one with an equally obvious answer. "How are you feeling, Leas? I mean, really? Beneath that charming, handsome façade of yours?"

Leas grimaces again. "I was that obvious, was I?"

"_Amatus_, I'm a magister. Determining an act from reality is a necessary survival skill back home," Dorian reminds him. Then, trying to lighten the mood, he smiles down at him and adds, "Though, yes, you _were_ that obvious."

His attempt falls flat; Leas only sighs and buries his head in his chest. "How do you think I feel?" he says, his voice muffled. "Adhlean and Iselen have returned to the clan for the next six months. The Inquisition is gone, and it ended with me admitting in front of half of Orlais that we were corrupt and complacent. I've got almost nowhere to go. Everyone's splitting up. _You're_ leaving. One of my best friends is the Betrayer out of Dalish legend and wants to destroy the world, and as soon as word of that gets out, there'll be hell to pay for the elves. Which I have to stop. Much like Ameridan had to find common ground between the Dales and Orlais under Drakon, and look how that turned out. And my _arm_ is gone, and with that comes… well, you saw how much trouble I had just getting into my clothes." His voice shakes again, and he wrenches his remaining hand in his hair. "I feel so _useless_, _arasha_. So damn _helpless_. And so alone. And—petty as it is—so _ugly_ and so ruined! I know I've said otherwise that I'm all right, the way I always used to say it… but I'm not. I'm as far from all right as I can be."

There it is at last. Every time someone has asked Leas about his condition over the past few days and Leas has more or less brushed them off, Dorian has waited for the truth to emerge, and now it does. He holds Leas even closer against him and cradles him, burying his face in his hair. "_Hic iter perpetitor,_" he says, and Leas lets out a weak chuckle. "And while I know mere words alone won't fix this, you're never ugly, ruined, or useless to _me_, darling. Short of an arm or not, you're as much of a marvel to me as you ever were."

Leas snuggles deeper into him. "The things you say," he murmurs, but Dorian can feel him smiling. "Such a smooth talker. As ever."

"Yes, but this time, I _mean_ what I say," Dorian tells him. "You'll never be useless, Leas. You'll come back from this in time. And one day, when all this madness is over with, then you can come home with me, and I'll show you Tevinter in the flesh. Seeing it in dreams is something, but it doesn't compare to the reality."

"I'm sure it doesn't. I just hope you don't mind waiting."

"Never," Dorian says, after a moment of considering whether he should feign offence at Leas' doubt. "Nothing will truly keep us apart, remember? If you can employ your own sappy phrases, then so can I." _That_, at least, earns him a laugh, and he considers his efforts to have been at least somewhat successful when Leas removes his hand from his hair and grasps the chain that hangs around his neck.

"But not without couching it in barbs, jokes, and sarcasm," he says, and there's a hint of teasing in his voice.

"Of course not! I've a reputation to live up to. Or down to, depending on your interpretation of it."

More laughter, and when Leas looks up, and there's a sparkle in his eyes for the first time in all these days, Dorian exhales in relief. "And that is paramount! Silly me for expecting an 'I love you'." If there's a sliver of bitterness in those words, the lightness _seems_ to drown them out, though that could just be him pretending that's the case so he doesn't have to deal with his perpetual inability to _say_ those words. His heart clenches, and the silence that follows is both comfortable and awkward at the same time, somehow. Only then does it occur to him he has rather expertly steered the conversation away from Leas' feelings—perhaps that is why the man tossed out such a barb.

Before he can say anything, however, Leas lifts his head up onto his shoulder and catches his gaze. "What about you? This past fortnight hasn't been the best of your life, either. How are _you_ feeling? With your father, and everything?"

Bless the man for remembering him amid his own pain, but that's not a question he's sure he can answer. He sighs and looks away. "Honestly, _amatus_, I don't know," he admits. "I haven't been thinking about it, not with everything that's been going on here. It still doesn't seem real. Every time I imagine going home, I still picture seeing him there, waiting in the atrium, or working in his study." He shakes his head. "I think it'll only _sink in_ when I'm home."

Leas wraps his arm around his chest. "I understand. When my grandfather died last year, it didn't seem real until I visited the clan. Well, remember that I'm here for you. As clichéd as it sounds, if you need to talk about it…"

Despite himself, Dorian manages a vague smile. "Thank you, but you've got enough to worry about."

"So do _you_. You just lost your father, but you're helping me. I just lost my arm and the Inquisition, but I can still help you. Can't I?"

His smile widens. "I suppose so." Then he turns and stares up at the ceiling. After a long, mostly comfortable pause, he lets out another sigh. "I guess… I'm grateful that he sent me back south. But I'm also _angry_ that he thought he had the right to put himself in the way like that—especially after what he did years ago." His voice shakes a little, and his hand clenches into a fist. "I'm _glad_ that he changed, that he meant what he said. But I'm _angry_ that he did as well. Beyond that, I don't know what I _should_ be feeling. If he hadn't tried to change me, it would be a simple matter. I idolised him once, you know? Except now I feel I _shouldn't_ be mourning him. Except he changed. And he protected me. Even to the death. Bastard," he finishes, muttering the last word.

After a moment, he glances at Leas and adds, "This is why I prefer to avoid dealing with _feelings_. Too complicated."

Leas bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. Once he's swallowed it, he moves his hand up to stroke Dorian's hair. "I understand. I wish I had something to say that wasn't a platitude, but I don't. All I can say is I think you're allowed to grieve for him and feel everything you're currently feeling. But you should remember the good he did as much as the bad."

"That's what's troubling me," Dorian admits. "If he _hadn't_ changed, I could have washed my hands of him easily. But he did—this proves it. I can't forgive him, but I also can't forget this. I keep wondering what might have happened, what else he might have done to prove he'd changed. I won't get the chance to find out now. It's like…" He pauses, struggling with the words.

"Like something's ended that shouldn't have? Like you'll never get any closure?" Leas says gently.

"Pretty much, yes," he admits. For a moment, his face twists, and he lifts his hand to wipe his eyes. "_Fasta vass_, why did you make me talk to him all those years ago? Washing my hands of him would have been so much simpler."

Leas grasps his chin and makes him look at him. "But if he had died, regardless? Then you'd be left with a whole other set of complicated feelings, and even less closure than you have now, I imagine."

"That's true, I suppose," Dorian concedes with another sigh. Behind his temples, a headache is gathering, building, and he rubs at the skin to fight it off. "Please, let's not discuss this anymore. This past fortnight's made a good enough attempt at sucking out my soul as it is."

Leas snorts. "I'd like to see anything try to suck out your soul."

"If you had _died_, that might have happened," Dorian reminds him. "But then you wouldn't have been around to see anything, would you?"

This time, Leas laughs, and he lifts himself up to press their lips together. "Glad to know you haven't lost your sense of humour, at the least," he says. "And here I thought I would miss it after you were gone. I suppose I'll miss it anyway, but with the crystal… less so. And don't worry, I still remember how to use it."

"We've practised enough with it," Dorian says. "I didn't _think_ you had forgotten."

Leas sits up and winks at him. He still looks ghastly pale and more than a little stressed, but at least some of his old humour and cheerfulness have returned to his face. Dorian considers that a victory. "Never," he murmurs. "But if you'll excuse me cutting this short… I think it's time we went to sleep. You'll need your rest, and I don't think we'll be doing a lot of _sleeping_ tomorrow."

Now it's Dorian's turn to laugh. "Very subtle, _amatus_," he says, though he also has no illusions about their activities tomorrow night. "But how much do you think you can handle in your current state?"

Leas shrugs as he pulls himself under the covers, Dorian following shortly after. "When I'm ill and armless? I guess we'll see. I would like to do something special, but I guess we shouldn't push ourselves. The last thing I want is to throw up during sex."

"Yes, the very thought is appalling," Dorian agrees, shuddering. He strokes Leas' cheek and jaw, watching as a soft smile comes onto his face and lights up his eyes again. "But don't worry. I think I know what to do to make you _scream_ in pleasure, one last time. For now, anyway."

Leas grins at him. "I'm holding you to that," he says, and he kisses him again before burying his face in his chest.

Dorian holds him afterwards, stroking his back and his hair and his arms and laying kisses on said hair. Sleep is long in claiming him, however, and it is fitful and chaotic, filled with dreams of his father and of the past week, of suggestions from figures he is next to certain are demons that Leas' illness is not entirely natural. He ignores them as best he can, but every time he wakes up in the night, the louder the thought grows.

_Just the idea of a demon. Just paranoia. Nothing more,_ he tells himself the third time he wakes up, when the sky is still dark and moonless.

But when Leas wakes up a few minutes later to rush off to the lavatory and throw up yet again, he can't help but wonder if it really is just paranoia, and that thought comes from no demon at all.

* * *

Indeed, their last night together, they don't sleep at all, though they spend almost the whole night in bed. Instead, they alternate between making love as frequently as they can stand, talking, and eating, with the occasional dash to the lavatory so that Leas can vomit, which happens far more often than Dorian likes. Throughout the night, Leas is feverish and sluggish, and more than once, Dorian asks him if he's _sure_ he wouldn't like to go to sleep, regardless of what's happening later. As stubborn as ever, Leas refuses him every time, and a few spells and potions seem to keep him going until the break of dawn, though that is not enough to settle the chill building in Dorian's gut.

At last—too soon—the morning arrives, and they disentangle themselves from each other to clean up, dress, and start their day. Today, Leas manages to get into his tunic without help. He still needs aid with his trousers, but they both agree that this is progress, and though he's as pale and ill today as he has been almost every other day, Leas' smile shines as bright as it ever does.

The journey will be a long one, so Dorian had judged it best to go early. As he and Leas walk through the streets of Halamshiral, just starting to wake up in the cold light of the third-last day of the year, he yawns, wondering for half a moment if he's made the right choice. Then he sighs, readjusts his grip on the bags slung over his shoulder, and tries to shove the thought out of his mind. Right decision or not—and that applies to many things grander than his time of departure—it's set in stone now. He might as well see it through to the end.

The walk takes a little longer than it should because of Leas' need to stop frequently and rest, another side-effect of his illness, which appears to have not improved at all. That sets the worry burning in his gut, the guilt—shouldn't he stay, regardless of his new obligations, and see him through this? But he says nothing of it, and in truth, they speak very little as they make their way through the streets to the gates, where Dorian's carriage to Jader awaits.

Finally, at the gates, Leas sets down the bags he's been carrying and shakes his arm. "Here we are then," he murmurs, furrowing his brow. A tiny frown mars his features, and there is no hint of amusement or joy in his face, only the same despondency that he had shown when Dorian first told him he was leaving. "I guess this is it."

"For now, _amatus_, for now," Dorian reminds him, reaching out to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. Leas responds, but the action seems rote, perfunctory, and his heart clenches as he pulls the man towards him. "I'll call before the day is out, I swear it."

"I had better," Leas says, sighing, refusing to meet his gaze. "Oh, _'ma vhen'an_… I hate having to be alone."

Dorian drops his own bags and puts his arms around him. "You won't be," he murmurs. "You said yourself you have Telahmisa and Taralen."

Leas shakes his head. "Yes, but they've been acting… _strangely_ for a while. We don't actually speak that much," he says, and his heart sinks all the further. "I know I won't be totally alone, that I have the crystal and can visit you in your dreams, but… It just won't be the same." His voice trembles a little, and Dorian exhales and pulls him into his chest, resting his chin on Leas' head.

"I'll try to make arrangements for you to come to visit as soon as possible. Though I must warn you they might change on a moment's notice, given the current situation. But it's something, isn't it?"

"Something." A pause. "I know I've always been one to rely on abstract ideals and optimism. I just… right now, I could use something more solid."

"I know," Dorian murmurs. He kisses the top of Leas' head and rubs his back while Leas clings to him. "This will pass, _amatus_. I know so many terrible things have happened to you in such a short space, but if anyone can get through this madness, it's you. Does that help?"

He can feel Leas smiling, though it is only small. "A little. _Jurosan min'vir. Hic iter perpetiar._"

For half a moment, Dorian wants to scold Leas for using the indicative rather than the imperative, before he remembers that the imperative mood doesn't _use_ the first person. "That's right," he says. "Just remember that '_perpetitor_'—the word _I_ used—is in the imperative, not the indicative. I'm sure you understand what that means."

"Ah. A command."

"Precisely."

Leas chuckles, and the sound is at least somewhat genuine. "Point taken. I'll… do my best, Dorian. I promise. But you had better do much the same."

"Me? Do anything less than my best?" Dorian pulls back and stares down at him with mock offence. "Perish the thought!"

That gets him another laugh, louder and stronger, and when Leas looks up at him, some of the sparkle is back in his eyes, the way it should be. "True. I trust you, _ara lath_. And I know if anyone can save Tevinter from itself, it's you. Just… please be careful. The last thing I want is for you to go silent on me and for me to have to wander to Tevinter in the Fade and find out you've been assassinated."

"Believe me, I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't happen," Dorian says, stroking Leas' cheek and holding his gaze. "I'll check in with you every day. Or once a week, whichever you prefer."

"Once a day to start off with. But don't _you_ start worrying if you don't hear from me every day, either. I'll be very busy once I've made a recovery… if I ever do."

"You _will_, darling," Dorian tells him, even as he looks at Leas' pallid, sunken-in cheeks and lank hair and feels another spike of ice in his veins. "By the time you come to visit, I'm sure you'll be as hale and hearty as ever. And then, one day…" He sighs and trails off, knowing how vague and empty the words must sound.

But Leas clings onto him. "One day. That's your promise of a future, I hope."

"Indeed, it is."

Leas stands up on his toes and kisses him. "I'll take it. _'Ma vhen'an_… wherever you are, that is my home, remember," he says. "The idea of a future… I suppose I can cling onto that, no matter how abstract it is."

Dorian smiles and rubs their foreheads together, cheeks warming. "Good. And remember what _I_ said. Nothing will truly keep us apart. We'll always find each other…"

"… Even in our dreams," Leas finishes. "Yes, I know." With that, Dorian realises just how disgustingly sentimental this entire situation is, and he shakes his head.

"Maker, the things you have me saying, _amatus_," he murmurs. "A few years ago, I would have choked on them."

Leas laughs again, eyes sparkling just a bit brighter, cheeks flushing pinker. "It's a nice change. You wear it well," he murmurs. "It's not 'I love you', but it's sweet."

"That can be said in any number of ways," he says. "Do you need those words alone?" As far as he can see it, his every action this past fortnight has said 'I love you'. '_Amatus_' alone says 'I love you'. 'You are the man I love'—there, he'd even said it almost word-for-word when he'd presented him with the sending crystal. What difference will those three little words make?

Leas exhales. "I… guess not. But I would like to hear them one day. It would… mean a lot, coming from you. But don't worry about it, Dorian, truly," he adds, perhaps seeing the frown creasing Dorian's face. "'Nothing will truly keep us apart.' '_Var'lath juros min'vir._' That's enough for the time being." So saying, he pulls Dorian in for another kiss, and, knowing that this must be the last, Dorian returns it with all the force and passion and even desperation he can muster.

_I love you._ He hopes the kiss can say it as well as any of his other actions, his other words. _I love you. Te amo. Lathan… Lathan ma?_

When they break away, Leas takes a few steps back, as if recognising that the time has come. His smile is tearful. "I think you had better go, or I'll never let you go. _Shit_, this is almost impossible."

"Tell me about it," he mutters, looking away to hide the gathering wetness in his own eyes and the fact that, for better or for worse, he's relieved. Whatever they may be walking into next, whatever Solas may be planning, whatever awaits him back in Tevinter, it is at least good to know that this hellish fortnight is, at last, coming to an end. He could do with a rest, and the long journey up to Minrathous sounds like the perfect chance for one. Probably the _last_ chance, given what he's been told about the situation in Tevinter. With a sigh, he picks up the bags he was carrying, and Leas takes the others. They head over to the carriage and hand them to the driver, who loads them on in silence. When he has done, he returns to his seat, and Dorian turns to Leas one last time.

One last time—one last time to watch him and remember him, memorise how he looks, to inhale his scent and feel his skin and his hair under his fingers. Fingers trembling, Dorian strokes his cheek and plays with a strand of Leas' hair, remembering, memorising, but he goes no further. He'll never be able to go if he does. Leas does the same for a moment, running a hand up his face and through his hair before stepping away.

"Well, then," he says. "_Dar'eth shiral_, as my people say. _Sule tael tasalal_—until we meet again."

"_Vitae benefaria,_" Dorian responds. "Let's be off for our seemingly impossible tasks. And don't worry," he adds, smiling, "you'll hear from me tonight."

"I had better," Leas says, and just like that, there's nothing more to say, at least for the time being. Sighing again, Dorian turns and steps into the carriage and closes the door, and seconds later, the driver spurs his horses into moving. As the carriage sets off, he looks out the window, watches Leas hug himself with his remaining arm, watches him stand and stare until he's out of sight. Then he groans and rests his head against the window.

_Fasta vass_, but even the night, when he'll contact Leas over the crystal, seems a very long way away.


	4. Tomorrow, When the War Began

**Author's Note:** Final chapter! Again, I hope you enjoy, and if you do, please leave a kudos and/or comment. For those who know it, yes, the title is a reference to John Marsden's _Tomorrow_ series.

* * *

For the next few days, everything goes according to plan. The carriage continues along the road to Jader entirely unimpeded, stops at infrequent but regular intervals, and for as little as there is to do, the quiet _is_ comforting after all the insanity of the past fortnight. With Halamshiral behind him, his mind shifts more and more to Tevinter; plans begin to form and crystallise in his head, and it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore the subject of his father. It still seems impossible, unreal, but, it _is_ coming home, and Dorian spends many long hours caught between grief, fury, guilt, relief, and more emotions that he doesn't care to name. They keep him occupied, but that's not exactly a comfort.

In the evenings, he contacts Leas, talks with him; their conversations are cheerful enough, but even from a distance, Dorian can sense that Leas is putting on a mask. His laughter sounds wrong, he jokes too freely, even the tone of his voice is off. Perhaps he's fallen back into old habits and doesn't want Dorian to worry about him, despite what he had said. Maybe he's trying to act normal, thinking if he does so, everything will become normal again. Or it could be something else. Regardless, Dorian makes little issue of it; Leas is stressed and still sick, and _he_ doesn't want to overburden him, either. They can have the more difficult conversations later. For now, it is enough to hear his voice.

It is on the first day of the new year—the first of Wintermarch, 9:45 Dragon, the _calends_ of Verimensis, 2039 TE—that everything goes wrong.

On the last day of 2038, Dorian had hoped to stay up past midnight and chat with Leas through the start of the new year, perhaps 'share' a celebratory glass of wine with him. But Leas had _still_ been sick, in fact even more unwell than usual, and he had ultimately had to discard the plan when the man had run off to throw up no fewer than three times. (Really, it was getting more than a little alarming: what sort of disease had the man picked up and _why_ wasn't it improving?) Upon his return after the third occasion, Leas had admitted to having a high fever and that he'd barely been able to do anything all day because he was so horribly ill, said that there was no way he could stay up all night—but perhaps they could have their celebration the next night? To this, Dorian had agreed, and he had ended the call with a suggestion that maybe he should find a different doctor because this illness of his clearly wasn't going away.

Now, it is the first evening of the new year, and Dorian sits in the room of the tavern he's resting in for the night, a few days away from Jader. He has a bottle of fine Orlesian merlot on his table, a glass ready in his hand, a content smile on his face. No doubt their celebrations will have to be more subdued than he'd hoped because of Leas' sickness, but they can make do. He holds the crystal in his other hand, murmurs the word to activate it, watches as it glows pale blue, and then holds it up closer and leans back in his seat.

Then he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

The time passes by, but not one movement does he hear over the crystal, not a word, not a single breath—nothing. "_Amatus?_" he murmurs, but even after several minutes have gone by, there is still no response. For half a moment, Dorian wonders if he might be in the lavatory, throwing up into the toilet again, or perhaps he's already gone to sleep, or maybe he's out… but if he were out, he would have the crystal on him, wouldn't he?

"_Amatus,_" he says again, louder.

Still nothing.

After another few minutes have passed, the first flickers of alarm stir in his chest. He holds the crystal still closer, strains his ears to hear _something_, but nothing comes, except perhaps an odd rustling. "Leas? Can you hear me?" he says, louder again. But still nothing comes.

_How odd. He wouldn't be working on the first day of the year, and he wouldn't stand me up. What's going on?_ With a sigh, he sips at his glass of merlot, which has gone mostly forgotten. _A bit longer, then. He could have been delayed._

In the end, 'a bit longer' turns out be two hours, but though Dorian waits and gets through several glasses of wine, Leas never comes. By the time he finally murmurs another word into the crystal, opting to leave a message, Dorian is strangely tired, and his nerves are wrenched tight; some deep anxiety or other has warmed his blood to a sickly heat. A lingering sense of betrayal settles in his stomach even as he knows that Leas must have had a damn good reason for not showing, and try though he might, he can't ignore it. "_Amatus_," he says, forcing humour. "I'm not sure why you didn't show. I hope you're not sick of me already. Call me paranoid, but if you get this message, please call me back as soon as possible. I'd prefer not to think you've dropped off the face of the earth." When he finishes, he lowers the crystal, deactivates it, and groans.

_Leas had said not to worry if you didn't hear from him one day,_ he reminds himself. The rejoinder occurs to him immediately, however. _But it's the first day of the year, and he had said he would 'show'. _Kaffas_, what happened?_

The rest of the night, Dorian spends in a state of profound unease, the crystal grasped tight in his sweaty hand as he waits for something that never comes. Even when he finally gives up and goes to bed, all the joy of the new year banished from his mind and replaced by a terrible fear, he continues to clutch onto it, and he remains awake for much of the night, waiting, waiting, _waiting_.

Only one night. But still he fears that something—everything—has gone horribly wrong.

* * *

Every day after that, Dorian spends in a state of nervous tension that wracks his frame, chills his blood, and after a while, leaves him feeling like he might burst. He activates the crystal more times a day than he'll ever admit, and he spends the rest of the ride to Jader waiting, waiting, waiting. Once again, his mind has shifted from Tevinter back to Halamshiral, and by the time he reaches Jader and still hasn't heard anything, he's more than a little tempted to turn around and go back again, just to ask what in the Maker's name is going on. But more letters—from Maevaris, from his mother, from a few of the Lucerni—bring more grim tidings of his homeland, and so Dorian boards the ship to Cumberland, committing himself to the course.

The entire journey is almost a month in length, and in all that time, he does not hear from Leas once. Every night, when he activates the crystal yet again, Dorian hears only more of the strange rustling, and the occasional footstep, and sometimes a strange, out of place, suspiciously _feminine_ gasp or cry. This goes on for a few minutes before the crystal goes dead in his hands—deactivated from the other end. In the mornings and the afternoons, there is nothing at all, nothing but silence, and Maker, but silence has never seemed so terrible to him.

_Kaffas, what has happened?_ Dorian wonders for the thousandth time after another night of the rustling, footsteps, and feminine cries. Those sounds are totally out of place, not what he should be hearing at all. His gut twists into knots in his chest as he thinks it over, and he wrenches his hands through his hair, uncaring of the mess he's making. 'Perplexed' does not begin to describe how he feels about this development. _Was his crystal stolen? How could it have been stolen? He always had it on him. Has something happened to him? But what?_ After that, his thoughts inevitably start going around in circles, which ends with him swearing repeatedly and praying that he gets to Minrathous as fast as possible so he can write a letter and learn what's going on.

For a time, the only recourse lies in his dreams, and there's something Dorian never thought he would rely on. When he's in the Fade, the waiting continues, but this time he can do more than sit—instead, he wanders, scans the horizon, looks among the denizens of the Fade for one that seems more real than the others. On more than one occasion, a demon takes Leas' form, but Dorian is not yet so worried that he's lost all his rationality to it, and he never falls for such base tricks. But even so, they are the only glimpses he has of him, for Leas never appears here, either, even though he had said he would.

At this, Dorian's alarm begins to turn into genuine panic. _Where are you?! Venhedis, amatus, you swore you wouldn't—don't do this to me so soon after losing your arm! Give me something—where are you?_ Night after night, day after day, hour after hour, as the sea and Nevarra and southern Tevinter fall away before him, these thoughts and variations on the theme run around his head in a maelstrom, alongside his plans, all thrown into chaos before they even began, and the complicated mess of emotions about his father he hasn't even started to sort through. They keep him from sleeping, distract him from eating, leave him stretched thin and desperate and utterly, utterly _helpless_. By the time his carriage rolls into Minrathous, one afternoon late in Verimensis, he has already lost weight, and he feels in no state for his first meeting with the Magisterium as a magister, tomorrow morning.

But even in his distracted state, it is impossible not to take stock of Minrathous as he walks the streets, bags slung over his shoulder. The city is as alive as ever, the noise of the crowds rushing over him like a wave, drowning out his thoughts—arguments between merchants and hagglers, masters giving orders to their slaves, commoners talking with their friends about everything and nothing, nobles muttering to each other about the latest Qunari raids. These, somehow, seem to rise above all the others, are probably why the atmosphere in the city seems so tense—why every conversation is so stilted, why the masters are more snappish and the slaves more skittish than usual, why there's an air of palpable dread about the place. Looking around him, the old buildings that have been falling apart for decades appear more fragile than ever, and the number of refugees that much higher, and perhaps it's just his fear talking, but everything feels like it's on the verge of falling over. For all the grandeur of Minrathous, which is the same as ever, it now all looks to him like a mask. One last gasp before the final days, the final attempt at pretending nothing is wrong, a presage of some great doom or other—whether a sign of coming change or the ultimate end of Tevinter, one cannot say.

_Paranoia,_ Dorian tells himself as he makes his way towards his family's estate. _You're worried. Whatever's going on with Leas, it doesn't mean…_ He hesitates, stumbles over the words. _Well, you'll find out what it means tomorrow. Assuming the others don't just bury their heads in the sand. Again._

The walk from where the carriage dropped him off to the estate takes the better part of an hour, and in that time, he is swamped with enough smells and sights of home that he almost forgets his fear. The merchants hawking their wares, the spices on the wind, the stench of thousands of people pressing together, the streets containing nothing built in the past few _centuries_, the towers with their striking materials and accents, the statues… he hasn't even been gone all that long, and he still missed it. That he's now back permanently… there is something comforting in that. Even despite…

_I'll show you all this one day,_ Dorian thinks, but that just brings him back around to the burgeoning panic within him, and all his comfort at being home for good vanishes in the blink of an eye.

Some kinder magisters with gentler reputations keep their estates in the poorer, or at least less wealthy, sections of the city, but his family's is situated with most of the others' in the most affluent district, far away from the gathering filth and decay and the stench of the crowds. It's as melodramatic as any other, a mansion of great size surrounded by even more extensive gardens, and it is almost painful to look at after seeing the fragility of Minrathous' grandeur. _The perfect place to pretend nothing's wrong with us,_ he muses. _Just wander down a corridor and you can forget everything you saw._ Still, its familiarity is soothing, and Dorian relaxes somewhat as he reaches the gate and finds the steward and several domestic slaves waiting for him.

The slaves bow low, some cringing back from him. A common practice, as far as Dorian understands it, when slaves come into the possession of a new master. They will always be subservient, but in the earliest days, as they determine his personality, learn whether he is cruel or kind, demanding or lax, they will be on their guard and more submissive than ever. One of them has bright red hair much like Leas', and Dorian pauses and watches her for a moment—

_Much like Leas. Oh. Fasta vass, that will have to be one of the first orders of business, making these people paid servants. But that's not enough, is it?_ He had been so blind to it, but in one blinding flash, as he understands the power he holds over these people, the fact that Dorian holds their lives in his hands—that he _owns_ them—the horror of it all reveals itself to him. If this had been Leas, as it could have been if not for the Hero of Ferelden… Now, perhaps, it makes sense to him, why Leas had said once he would rather live poor and free than in comfort with his life in the hands of another. _These_ people cannot run from him as he did from his father, and no amount of assurances on his part will ever make them forget what he is.

Something else to change. But that is something he will have to consider another time, though soon. At this moment, the steward, Lucatus, rises from his bow and approaches. A long-standing retainer, if it is even appropriate to use that word for a slave, he is more familiar with Dorian than the house slaves and has much less of the others' fear. In his hands is a small bundle of letters. "_Domine_," he says, keeping his eyes averted. "I hope your journey from the south was without incident?"

"It was, thank you," Dorian responds. _Too much_ without incident, really, but there's no need to mention that. For a moment, he shifts his attention to the house slaves and gestures for them to come forth. "Take these and bring them to my chambers, please and thank you," he tells them, keeping his voice quiet, not at all commanding. He slides the bags down his arm, and the slaves take them, showing no response to his request. That is no disappointment; he will have to earn their trust—if earn it he can. As soon as they have gone, he turns to Lucatus. "Is there anything I should know about?" he asks, and he gestures for them to walk.

Lucatus bows and falls into step next to him, keeping his eyes downcast as they walk down the path towards the mansion. "You arrived just ahead of Lady Aquinea, _domine_. She will be here tomorrow. There are also many of your father's old clients clamouring for your attention, some more urgently than others. I have taken the liberty of putting together a list for your perusal. It's in your study. And there are a number of messages that have arrived, mostly from Qarinus. You will want to visit soon and sort matters out on your family's estate there. _Domine._"

Routine matters, and nothing he was not expecting. "Thank you. Anything out of the ordinary, apart from the obvious?" No need to mention the funeral arrangements. Maker, he's not looking forward to those… nor to seeing his mother again. What she'll have to say about all this…

The steward hesitates a moment then says, "A… letter arrived a few days ago, yes. From the Black Divine."

Dorian comes to a halt and turns to look at Lucatus. "The Black—you mean Divine Victoria?" he blurts.

Lucatus nods, though a vague note of distaste passes over his face at the mention of Leliana's Divine name. "Yes, _domine_. I almost threw it out, begging your pardon, but the envelope was marked with the word 'urgent' in uppercase, written with such force that it tore a small hole in the parchment. And I know you have worked with her, so even if it had not been so marked, I would have kept it." From the pile of letters in his hands, he plucks one out and shows it to Dorian, and indeed, the envelope is marked with large black letters, ink stains, and a hole.

At once, Dorian takes it. "Any idea what this might be about?"

"No, _domine_. But there have been rumours swirling about elven disappearances in the south since the beginning of the year. It may have something to do with that."

Dorian looks at him again. "Anything about the former Inquisitor?" he asks before he can stop himself.

"Inquisitor Lavellan? No, nothing. At least, not that I've heard," Lucatus says. He bows and shoots him an apologetic look, keen brown eyes widening as he does so. "I've been too focused on matters here and at the Qarinus estate. Handling matters after…" Again, he pauses.

"After Father's death, of course," Dorian finishes, nodding. "Thank you, Lucatus." They set off down the path again, and Lucatus hands him the remaining letters—a sizeable pile in and of themselves. Going through them will take time, but that's no surprise. There's always a flurry of activity when a new magister joins the Magisterium, especially if an assassination has taken place beforehand. And honestly, this might be the _easiest_ part of his accession.

As they walk, they discuss further matters of administration, and Lucatus touches upon many of the issues his father's clients are squalling about. He also mentions the agenda for tomorrow's meeting of the Magisterium and a few developments in the Qunari situation, some of great concern. By the time they reach the mansion and head inside, Dorian's head is full of tasks, things to note down and keep in mind, and far more besides. Again, not unexpected. Magisters always get thrown in the deep end when they come into their titles. Come to think of it, he's not sure Tevinter _has_ a shallow end to begin with.

After dismissing Lucatus, Dorian retreats to his chambers to find the redheaded slave waiting with his bags. She shifts from foot to foot as he enters and stares at the floor as he gives her instructions, again unaffected by the gentleness of his voice and the fact that he says 'please'. The resemblance between the two is shallow but for the hair, yet the more Dorian looks at her, the more he sees of Leas, and his head spins. In another life, Leas could have been this demure, this quiet, and while he would have been an _incaensor_, not a domestic slave, the principle is still the same. All at once, he remembers Leas' jokes about the Tevinter noble taking the Dalish elf, how _submissive_ he always in bed, and he abruptly wants to throw up.

_What was so funny about that to you? In another life—!_

In another life, Dorian could have raped him.

It might be meet, some part of him realises as he struggles to get away from the turn his thoughts are taking, to ask the girl's name. It could make her feel more at ease, even if only a little. But—he has much to do, and for all he knows, she might misread his intentions. Perhaps it would be better to save getting to know his household for later.

But if he's going to be halfway _decent_, or at least marginally less _horrible_ than his fellow slave owners…

He chances a glance at the girl. She seems tired, even a little thinner than she should be. Why that might be, he has no idea, but he can enquire later. For now… "After you've done, feel free to take a break," he says, and her eyes briefly flash up to meet his before she remembers herself and looks back down again. "Get something to eat."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "_Gratias tibi ago, domine,_" she says.

A start, the larger part of him thinks as he leaves and heads for his study.

_Nothing at all,_ the more sensible part realises. _Do you want a prize for common decency?_ As Dorian crosses the cold marble floor and rounds the corner, his hand reaches up, grasping for the crystal and a chance to ask Leas what he should do about all this. No doubt Leas will have some idea…

Then he remembers, and his hand falls, and the sickly heat floods his veins again.

Entering the study does not help his mood. Much as he'd said he would, the second he steps through the door, Dorian halts where he stands and looks to the chair, expecting to see his father working, hear the scratching of his quill against parchment. But the chair is empty, and everything is as his father presumably left it—neat, organised, nothing out of place. Of course, Lucatus could have sorted things out, but…

Unbidden, two memories rise to his mind. The first is unclear, faded, coming from years long gone. He was only a boy, just starting his studies and possessing no comprehension of the meaning of a closed door, and he'd entered this room while his father was busy. His father had indulged him and his childish prattle, smiled, laughed, showed him what he was working on—a report for the Magisterium far beyond what Dorian could understand. But his father was working on it, so it had seemed like the greatest and most important thing in the world. That much is all he recalls.

The second is too clear: the day he found evidence of his father's plan, right on that same desk where the man had once sat with him, showed him his reports, and indulged his babbling even though he was busy. He doesn't even remember what he was looking for that led him into the study in the first place, nor the exact wording of the plans, but it matters little in the face of everything else. The confusion, the dawning comprehension, the shock, the fury, the _betrayal_, and one word, one concept to guide him through the mess—_run_. It's nearly as clear now as it was years ago, and he almost turns around and walks out the door again.

But he stops himself in time, and when he realises what he's doing, he lets out a bitter chuckle. If those two memories don't sum everything up…

And that's it. Gone forever. No chance for anything more, no opportunity for change. No more memories to make. That's _it_.

It all comes home at last, right when Dorian had said it would, and he spends his first day of work as a magister caught somewhere between numbness, relief, and agony. He hadn't thought he could ever feel so exhausted as he did after the elven ruins, but by the time the day finally ends and he retreats to his chambers to read Leliana's letter and have a much-needed drink, the tiredness is in his very bones.

_You would know what to say, wouldn't you, amatus,_ he thinks as he collapses onto his bed and flicks open the letter. _You always do. Venhedis, where are you?_

With a sigh, he scans the letter. Leliana's handwriting is more hurried than usual, and it seems to tremble here and there, as if she was writing while gripped by a great fear—not a good sign. With his blood chilling, though the night is warm enough, Dorian takes a larger-than-is-polite swig of his wine and starts to read the letter properly.

_Dorian,_

_I wish I had better news to share, but something terrible has happened. It is dreadful, almost absurd—none of us has had time to catch our breath after the Exalted Council, but another disaster has already been visited upon us, and what the consequences may be, even I cannot say._

_Leas has gone missing. He was last seen in the company of his clanmates, Telahmisa and Taralen, late in the last evening of 9:44. I am told his illness was worsening, that he had been violently ill that evening, and that Telahmisa and Taralen were caring for him, or purporting to, anyway. In the morning, when the palace doctor came to see him, he was not in his rooms, and though the palace and Halamshiral have been searched from top to bottom, we could find no signs of him._

_Our only clues as to what has happened lay in the other notable disappearances: most of the elven servants in the palace and, more critically, Telahmisa and Taralen. All are assumed to have vanished around the same time he did. What's more, when my people investigated Telahmisa and Taralen's rooms, we found correspondence from the servants who we now know are agents of Fen'Harel. This, at the very least, links them to Solas, if it does not outright prove that they are _also_ his agents._

_Even worse than that, after we concluded our search, the palace doctor demanded the chance to examine Leas' medication, and when he did, he found that it was not truly medication at all, but magebane. When we examined Telahmisa's room, we found a considerable quantity of the substance—all of which, I realised, must have been snuck into the palace on the Inquisition's supply manifest, much like the _gaatlok_ barrels. As I now realise far too late, Leas' fever, vomiting, limited mana pool, and weaker spells were not because of disease, but this. My current suspicion is that Telahmisa poisoned him, that she had the servants sneak it into his food and drink before the Council, and then took advantage of his weakened state afterwards to give it to him directly. None thought to question her, for he trusted her._

_So much for that. We do not know where Leas is, but we have an inkling of where he may have gone; we found several of his hairs in the room outside the eluvian. Given his illness, the fact that he was still recovering from his surgery, and that his armour and staff were still where he left them in his room, it is obvious he did not leave by choice, to put it politely. Indeed, seeing as that Telahmisa went to the trouble of poisoning him, it is clear she and Taralen have been planning this for some time. I guess, if they are agents of Solas, then they know that Leas intended to stop him, and they removed him from the picture before he could act. Whether they acted on their own or under orders from their master, I cannot yet say._

_Naturally, as soon as we had worked out where they had gone, we sent some of our remaining soldiers and scouts to the eluvian to pursue them. But they found the eluvian had gone dark, and try though we might, we could not open it again. I have sent a few of my people back to Skyhold to see if they can go through Morrigan's eluvian, but I fear they will not be able to. It appears, then, that we have been shut out of the network, someway, somehow. Not that it matters—the Crossroads are vast. Even if we found our way in, there is no way of knowing which eluvian Leas might have been dragged through._

_Thus far, our only hope lies in Leas' ability to reach us in our dreams and the sending crystal you gave him. If he has said anything to you, Dorian, or if you have seen him in your dreams at all, I insist that you write back and tell us at once. We do not have any other leads right now, and with the situation being what it is, we must find him as soon as possible. Nobody else can keep the peace between the humans and elves while elves keep disappearing, and nobody else stands a chance of stopping Solas, and it is not fair that he should have to fight for his life again so soon after having almost died._

_I am terribly sorry I have to tell you this, Dorian. Please write back soon—your knowledge may well be our only hope._

_Leliana_

The letter falls from his grasp.

* * *

The weeks pass by and soon turn into months. It does not take Dorian long to re-acclimatise himself to Tevinter, to carve out his own niche within the Magisterium; even less time to establish a reputation as a voice of reason among the infighting of the nobility. Most think him insane, others see him as a source of inspiration, many believe him a threat. Attempts at assassination, bribery, blackmail, threats—every weapon in a standard magister's arsenal—come thick and fast and as regular as clockwork. They never surprise him, but they soon become utterly dull to him—and all this against a backdrop of Qunari raids, slave revolts, and even more internecine conflict than usual. The task he has set himself is next to hopeless and of crushing weight, but it is not one that can be refused, not for anything in the world.

Still, at any one time, only half of his heart is in the conflict. Were it not for the fact that he cannot fail his country and Felix's memory as he failed Leas himself, that he cannot turn his back on what little he and the Lucerni have achieved, and that he suspects his southern friends will need an ally on the ground when the real chaos breaks out, Dorian already would have returned to the south. Even as he knows that he can likely do no more than the others, who send him a regular stream of increasingly frantic letters without a shred of good news in them, still, he turns the possibilities over in his head. Perhaps some of his Tevinter magic will unlock the eluvians, or all of them together can, or…

It matters little. As the weeks and months wear on, as he waits and waits and _waits_, the question of why he had left so soon torments him ceaselessly. He could have held out a little longer, could he not? He had time, and his mother would have delayed any attempts to steal his seat from him. Why had he left so quickly? Why had he not followed up on his suspicions that Leas' illness was not natural or checked his medication? He is Tevinter; ought he not have known better than to trust blindly?

Useless, he knows, to ponder such things now. It has been too long, it is set in stone, and hope is dwindling. Every day, morning and night, he activates the crystal, and he waits. Every night, he wanders in the Fade and he looks for a flash of red hair, a glimmer of golden eyes. But the actions seem perfunctory now, continued out of habit rather than because he still has hope. Judging from their letters, the others are just as despairing, and though it is never said, Dorian ultimately knows that they must trust to Leas and his abilities—presuming he still lives—or, failing that, to the Maker Himself. And why not? At this point, it seems as if nothing else could salvage this situation.

So much for the good work of the Inquisition, Dorian muses to himself as he reviews another report of the casualties in Carastes one evening. All that they did, all that Leas did, and now it's getting ripped apart by forces entirely outside of their control. And if Solas succeeds, then they may as well have not bothered fighting Corypheus, too.

There comes a night shortly after this one when he again wanders the Fade and watches for something he no longer has any hope of seeing. He is outside the simulacrum of Minrathous, in a part of the Valarian Fields that is dotted with villages, but there is not a soul in sight, not even a demon, at least as far as he can tell. He almost does not bother to keep his guard up as he wanders without purpose, watches, waits, endures without realising that he is enduring. It is another long and empty night, and he hopes the morning comes quickly, that he might have something to do.

Near the coast opposite Minrathous, Dorian spots a figure in ragged robes wielding a crude elm staff. He stares out at the sea, seems distant… but also solid. There is no trace of demonic power about him, that much is clear even from far off. Indeed, he seems to carry a power about him that Leas always did when he visited him in his dreams… diminished, but more or less the same. His hair is red, though it has been cut short, and his ears point out through it.

Almost before he knows he is doing it, Dorian has cried out, and he is running towards him. But somehow, no matter how far he runs, Leas always seems to remain distant, out of reach, a lonely and untouchable figure. He reaches the shore, but now Leas is further away, even though Dorian did not see him move. He calls out again, wordlessly, and Leas turns to look at him. From a distance, his eyes are gold and sparkling, and the corners of his mouth turn up into a barely visible, serene smile.

They say nothing to each other, and Dorian suddenly finds himself rooted to the spot—whether that be by some magic, some trick of the Fade, or by his own will, he knows not. He stares at Leas, wild hope surging anew in him, and though he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Leas does not even do that, but even so, Dorian starts to hear murmurings in the air, whisperings of words half-forgotten. _Nothing shall truly keep us apart. Var'lath juros min'vir. Nostri amor hic iter perpetietur._ It sounds like Leas' voice, somehow, impossibly.

_Where are you,_ he tries to call out, yet again. _For the love of the Maker, tell me where you are!_ But Leas only keeps smiling that strange, peaceful smile, and a few moments later, he turns away and disappears, and the encounter ends.

After, Dorian searches ceaselessly, calls out until his voice is hoarse, is almost driven to ask the spirits he encounters where he might find Leas in the Fade. The whisperings and the promise of the words they spoke so long ago drive him forward. But his dreams give him no more.

* * *

**Translations**

_"Gratias tibi ago, domine."_: "Thank you, master." (lit. "Thanks to you I give, master.")

**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading all this way! I hope you liked it. While this is the final entry in the series so far, I do hope to keep writing more Dorian/Leas stories in between now and DA4. It's not completely over yet!


End file.
